The Union of Magic
by Yona0
Summary: Since Harry was a child, he'd been able to sense the intricacies of magic. Due to this, he cares little for the prejudice within his newly discovered world. Where will his ability lead him in a world where people are partisaned by blood and magic?
1. Chapter 1

**Hello. Thanks for reading. I began this over the summer just for fun (the length later says otherwise, but really) and was not planning to publish it (and rightly so)...But what the hey? I don't expect anything since I know it's an amalgam of cliche and bad, but here we go. I'm not even gonna promise anything with this...**

 **Good luck.**

 **Edit (05.11.17): I didn't really change much. I _think_ it may be better, but it could just be unnecessary deatil. Just inform me if it's worse than I think...**

 **{TUoM}**

 **October 31st, 1981, Godric's Hollow**

" _Godric's Hollow_. Oh, how the mighty House of Potter has fallen. The Lord married a Mudblood, sired a child with the filth, and now he has deserted his Ancestral Home. The end they'll receive at my hands will be a precursor to the purge of the filthy blood traitors from our world!"

"Y-yes, I couldn't agree more, my lord!"

Blood red slitted eyes glared disdainfully at the pitiful excuse of a man cowering at his feet. The pathetic rat had been nothing more than a useless spy for the Light, providing less information than his life was worth even though he was in the perfect position to know every going on within the Order. The simpering fool had been one mishap away from an _Avada Kedavra_ when he had come to the Dark Lord the location of the elusive Potters. Despite every urge in him demanding he end the pitiful rat's life, Lord Voldemort did not reward his servants with death. He would have to inform Nagini she'd have to find another vermin to feast on.

"Wormtail."

The rat animagus flinched under the ruby gaze on him. "Yes, m-my lord?"

"Leave."

"But m-my lord-!"

The Dark Lord's red eyes narrowed. "Are you questioning me, Wormtail?"

Wormtail, Peter Pettigrew, squeaked, sweat beading on his sallow skin. "N-no, my lord! I would never-"

"Then leave," Lord Voldemort repeated once more, hissing, the small vestige of leniency from the rat's information fragmenting. "Report to me when Bella and Barty are finished with the Longbottoms."

The cowardly rodent bowed to his master. "Y-yes, my lord! It will be done!"

When his servant had long gone with a loud crack, the Dark Lord turned to the quaint house under _Fidelius_. With a flick of his yew wand, he detected powerful protection wards in an aurora of color that would deter even the most seasoned wizards. _Not powerful enough._ Only wards set by one of the stature of Dumbledore could stop him, and these, sadly, were not.

White yew tore through the air and the wards were torn with an almost audible ripping sound, the air shuddering violently. A vicious smirk split pale, thin lips at the sound and the Dark Lord didn't hesitate to storm into the house.

"Lily, take Harry and get upstairs! Now!" James Potter yelled, whipping his wand out and blocking the stairs his wife had just fleed up. "You will not touch my son! _Expelliarmus_!"

Red light arched through the air like lightning but Voldemort merely waved it away with a bat of his wand. The Disarming Charm, it wasn't even worth casting _Protego_ for. "Weak, Potter, for one who's 'thrice defied the Dark Lord'. Aren't you going to protect your dear son?" The Dark Lord taunted. "What was his name, ah, Harry, was it? The perfect name for the offspring of that filthy Mudblood."

Rage twisted James Potter's face and he launched toward the Dark Lord. "Don't you dare call her that or say my son's name! _Diffindo! Stupefy! Reducto!"_

Voldemort batted away strings of slightly powerful than average light spells for several moments, merely having to flick his wrist as the man circled him, before he grew bored. His eyes narrowed in suspicion. The Potter lord and his wife had fought on the front lines and survived - _thrived_ _in_ even, he had heard - the chaos of the battlefield wrought with dark and insidious magic for a reason. Where were the ingenious transfiguration concoctions he'd heard his followers snarl about 'barely escaping'? The advanced 'wonderous, inconceivable' charms and enchantments his nearly Mistress-level wife excelled at? Where was any indication that the whispers he'd heard of their less than kind methods of incapacitation? _Something is amiss..._

Red eyes narrowed, glowing intensely for a moment before the words of the incomplete prophecy echoed through his mind. The blood traitor was just attempting to delay him, another obstacle obstructing his path to his 'vanquisher'. "I have no time for this nonsense," he hissed. With magic enhanced speed, he sidestepped a silently cast exploding spell, and twisted his wand harshly through the air as a magenta shaded spell that had been hidden behind it reached him. _Clever, but not nearly clever enough._ " _Pantumna_." He snarled the Greek spell that froze the magenta magic in the air, distorting it's nebulous shape as if invisible hands were contorting it, before snapping back towards its caster. Even as the Potter evaded, the reflected spell honed on him like the Muggles' heat-seeking missile, as it was designed to, and sent the man flying into a wall with a sickening crack.

Voldemort hissed in surprise upon seeing cuts as fine as those made by scalpels split the skin of Potter's upper body, particularly the arms and wrists. The spell wasn't a mere repelling charm, but one aimed to render a person unable to wield a wand, cutting through muscles if the neuropathic-like twitches of his fingers were any indications. "Someone's been dabbling, haven't they?" Voldemort murmured, amusement curling his thin lips. "That wasn't a light spell, Lord Potter. What would your dear Dumbledore think if he learned of this?"

The young lord gritted his teeth and glared murderously. "Nothing you'll ever know, I assure you. The dead can't intrude on the minds of old hypocrites after all." He sneered.

Cocking his ahead almost curiously, Voldemort gazed down coldly at the bleeding man below him. "Pity you aren't a Seer. Else you'd not chosen those to be your last words. Fear not, your wife and child will be joining you soon enough." He aimed at the man before he could waste any more of his time. " _Avada Kedavra._ "

James Potter's body slumped to the bloodied floor and Voldemort took to the stairs. He stopped at a door he sensed the Mudblood hiding behind, protected by a measly Locking Charm and he almost felt insulted if not for the dark smirk that curled his lips once more. _You're making this so easy_ \- _too easy_ , his mind whispered, but he dismissed it. The woman was pathetic, had she even attempted to escape? He blasted the door away with a burst of magic from his wand, not even needing to say a spell, and took in the sight of the fiery haired, dirty blooded witch shielding her child from view.

"Please! Not Harry!" The witch, Lily Potter begged, not even reaching for her wand. "Take me! Just not Harry!"

The Dark Lord stilled and hissed at the witch - one of the so-called greatest of her generation despite her blood, yet immediately fell to begging instead of using the magic she'd been blessed with. _Another reason why filth such as this aren't worthy of this world, they're nothing more than_ waste "Stand aside!" Severus had been a good servant and informed him of the prophecy of his vanquisher, so at his faithful servant's request, he would grant mercy to the Mudblood - if she did not stand in his way.

"No! Please not Harry!"

"Then you die," the Dark Lord stated coldly. " _Avada Kedavra_."

Had his mind not been so addled by the prophecy, he would have seen the minute curl of the witch's lip before the curse hit and felt the slight but defined shift in magic in the air that permeated the room.

Mudblood fell soullessly to the ground, earning less than a glance from the Dark Lord. He spared a short thought on Severus - he'd have to address the Potion Master's allegiance after such earnest pleas for mercy - before turning his attention back to the matter at hand. The prophecy. His vanquisher. Nothing more than a defenceless child.

"Eh, eh, mama?"

The Dark Lord turned his blood red eyes to the source of the voice and found a child, little more than an infant standing in a crib, gripping its edges as his large, verdant eyes stared unblinkingly at him. The serpentine man walked toward the child and raised his wand to where it was almost touching his forehead.

" _Avada Ke-_ "

The Dark Lord froze as the child's vibrant eyes seemed to glow as he suddenly smiled and his small, chubby hand reached up to grasp the end of his wand. Voldemort's eyes widened as he felt the strong, magic-soaked wave of air that swept through the room. The child was barely over a year old and his magic was already greater than some of his lower tier Death Eaters. That was, admittedly, pitiful for adults, but for a child only a year old, it was substantial. And not only that, he also appeared to have magic similar to his own, if the reaction of his wand was anything to judge by.

It was a pity the boy had to die. He had so much potential. But Voldemort would not allow any threats to his rise or the Dark's to live and thrive. The child would die here and now.

The Dark Lord looked down at the child gripping his wand and giggling, unaware that it would be the tool to end him. " ** _Goodbye, child_** ," he whispered in parseltongue. " ** _Had you not been the child of Potter and that Muggle filth, you might have lived to be an ally of mine_.** " He poised his wand. " _Avada Kedav_ -"

" ** _Bye-bye_ ,**" the child said, no, _hissed._

The Dark Lord's eyes widened once again as the snake's tongue left the child's lips. The child was a descendant of Slytherin? But that was impossible. He was the last of Salazar Slytherin's line, there were no other bloodline tangents outside of the Gaunts, as they never married outside of the family. This child, Harry Potter, could not have this ability, his power.

 _So much potential. And yet it must be wasted_.

For the first time since he was a young child, Voldemort felt a twinge of regret before he squashed it as he gripped his wand and pressed it to the child's forehead. The child would die. He had to. He would.

 _"Avada Kedavra_."

As the ghoulish green magic shot from his yew wand's tip, he looked into the child's eyes and gasped as he realized the irises weren't verdant but almost the exact same hue of the curse he'd just cast. Nothing good came from anything with that color, he knew, but it was already too late. Searing, splitting, agonizing pain shot through him as he saw the Killing Curse rebound and collide with him, sending him flying. He felt as if his body were consumed by flames hotter than Fiendfyre, burning down to his soul, destroying the tethers that bound him to his body.

" _Ahhhhhh_!"

The walls flickered an unnoticeable shade of red, etched in invisible runes of old magick, before they combusted and collapsed under the wild wave released from the Dark Lord's body as it was rendered to ashes. His tormented, splintered soul was forced away by the strength and all that remained was the ashes of his serpentine body and the dark, thick magic coalescing in the night.

In his crib, Harry Potter giggled and babbled in his newfound snake tongue as he twisted his little hands in the magic flowing turbulently through the air. A lightning shaped scar smarting bright red, but the child didn't seem to notice as the dark magic circled around him, rotating in a gyrating spiral. His bright, ghoulish _Avada Kedavra_ eyes glowed and he laughed with joy as the magic suddenly closed in, rotating closer and closer, until the spiral sheathed his small form, fluctuating madly before retreating into the lightning shaped scar.

A pained cry left the child before the magic disappeared as if it had never been there and his small body fell in the crib, eyelids fluttering shut.

 **{TUoM}**

Pale blue eyes with no twinkle watched the swaddled child in his arms breathe in and out as he carried him to the doorstep of his only living relatives. He was aware the Muggle couple had also just borne a child, and despite the couple being staunchly against the Wizarding kind, they were the only people he could leave the boy with. They would not provide the best home, but they would keep the child separated from those that could possibly taint him.

Albus Dumbledore wasn't delusional enough to believe he was acting on the sole behalf of the child's well-being, and even if he wished he could, he couldn't. The Vow he made prevented him from doing anything that could risk the Wizarding world as a whole, and allowing this child - Harry Potter, to live amongst his own kind, would tip the delicate balance between the Light and Dark. In what way and how he knew this, he could not tell - he never had - but he was more than aware that if he left the boy here, in the custody of the admittedly vile Muggles, the balance would remain at an equilibrium...for longer than otherwise, at the very least.

"Forgive me, Harry Potter," the old wizard whispered as he sat the child on the doorstep of the Muggles' home, finger twitching slightly as he cast a Warming Charm for the chilly night. He set a note on top of the slumbering child's chest and turned away, reaching his old student, now friend. "Come, Minerva," he said before the witch could speak her protests.

"Albus..." Minerva McGonagall murmured stiffly. "I dearly hope you know what you're doing."

Dumbledore began to walk, not responding immediately as the witch began to walk at his side. Then he looked up at the sky, watching the clouds float past the full moon. "As do I, Minerva. As do I..."

And the two vanished in a near silent crack.


	2. Chapter 2

**Well, hello. Did not expect _that_ response. Thanks to everyone who read, glimpsed, followed, favorited, etc. I am positively stunned ._. Well, here we go with this long chapter. I couldn't cut it without putting in extraneous effort, the next one's should be shorter. Sorry for any mistakes, editing is hard for stuff ths long.**

 **Anyway, this is my (cliche, told you) try at Harry's childhood. Warnings for abuse and such, nothing too cruel or violent or dark (despite that spiral of dark magic, which is making me crack up for coming up with it).**

 **Good luck.**

 **{TUoM}**

 **Number Four, Privet Drive, Little Whinging, Surrey**

 **Ages 1-10**

Petunia Dursley considered herself to have a fairly content life. As a child, her parents were kind and indulging while maintaining an authoritative household that allowed her to flourish into an admirable woman. She was able to get a full education, finishing high school as well as four years of college in business and social welfare. She never had to use her degree, luckily, since she met the love of her life and future husband in her second year. After graduating, she was a happily married housewife and just months later, expecting. Nine moths later, Dudley was born, becoming the center of her and her husband's lives.

With her beloved Duddikins and Vernon, she could finally move past her unfortunate blood relations. Taking care of her newborn and catering to her love made her forget about the last member of her family whom she hadn't seen in three years, nor had she any desire to see again. It truly was a smudge on her family that such a person, such a _freak_ , could have been born from them. She had been such a good person until she fell prey to the devil's trickery too. At one time, Petunia had even still loved her dearly despite it, but that time had long passed. Now, she wanted absolutely nothing to do with the freak, she was in a completely different world and since that was where she chose, that was where she belonged.

She thought, with her life settled and finally complete, her desires had been granted. And then _he_ appeared. Out of nowhere. Her content life, lived only for a mere year, was shattered like precious China glass slammed on the floor. She could hear the peace and happiness of her life with her family slowly fall to war and ruin when she found _him_ on her doorstep with a letter on his chest.

A perfectly lovely morning was ruined as her life was interrupted by the child of that freak she loathed. The letter on his chest, the letter that told of the freak's death along with her devil-worshipping husband to a madman bent on ruling that world. It told of how the freak's spawn had nowhere else to go. It told of how she had to take in the spawn, for if she dared to abandon him, a death worse than the freak's would come to her and her family.

The freak's spawn had brought nothing but _death_ to her and her loved ones. By all rights, he should've died with his freaky parents. The world would've been a better place if he had. But he hadn't. So she was now stuck with another mouth to feed, this one unworthy and unwanted, but she had no choice. The child, undoubtedly a freak like its predecessors, was now hers to care for "like her own son", or so another freak named Albus Dumbledore requested.

Only for sixteen more years. Just until the freak was seventeen, an adult in _that_ world. And he would forever be out of their lives. They would have to be patient and careful. If her memories were to be trusted and the child was anything like his freak of a mother, he would be dangerous long before then. She wouldn't allow him to endanger her family, not again, not like that time his mother had when they were children. No, she would eliminate the threat before it even manifested, by any means. Even if she had to force out the danger, the inherent _freakiness_.

Years later, Petunia Dursley couldn't believe how foolish she was to think she could force the devil out of the devil's own son.

 **{TUoM}**

Petunia knew from the moment the freak known as Harry Potter opened his eyes for the first time that he would be just as much of a freak as his mother. He had the same bright, inhumanly bright, green eyes. Large, wide and seeming to watch everything with curiosity as he babbled in way that would've been endearing had his babbling not sounded like the hissing of a snake occasionally.

It was disturbing, those moments when the child looked like any other one year old but then suddenly began to hiss in between meaningless babbles and giggles. Vernon had nearly had a heart attack when he heard it and Dudley always cried and fussed when the freak did it, and Petunia herself was greatly unsettled. The other freak had never done that, but she knew it was not something an ordinary child could do. Unfortunately, she could do nothing about it, since he was barely able to understand anything yet. She would have to wait until he was a bit older to discipline the child.

Other than the hissing, the child was relatively normal. The majority of the time he didn't cry, only fussing when he was hungry or needed to be changed. Since her husband refused to so much as touch him, Petunia took care of all of his needs, though only after she had tended to her own child. And her little Duddlikins could fuss and cry for hours, he had quite the set of lungs.

She willfully ignored how much easier a baby Harry was to care for than her own as she spoiled and showered her child with affection.

As the children grew older and more self aware, she tended less and less to Harry and coddled Dudley more and more, since he was only encouraged to learn things such as potty training and speaking when he was rewarded with sweets and kisses. She could clearly remember the day when Dudley first walked. He was reluctant and favored being carried but she knew he could do it. And he had, but then that cursed child ruined he moment by actually having the nerve to walk and towards her and call her _mum_.

She distantly knew it was from her coaxing to Dudley when she repeatedly said " _Come on, Dudders! Come to Mummy_!" but she couldn't restrain her reaction of snapping at the child, who had walked for the first time though she ignored it, that she was most certainly _not_ the mother of a _freak of nature_. Vernon supported her by bellowing the same, but when the child only flinched a little and repeated 'mum' once more, her husband snapped as well.

Petunia was shocked when her husband suddenly smacked the child, not as hard as he could have, but hard enough to send the child to the ground. She hadn't considered physically inflicting the child at so young an age, but she wouldn't stop him. If he didn't discipline the child now, who would? They couldn't just let his behaviour persist. It had to be extinguished now, sooner rather than later, before it was too late.

And so she didn't stop her husband either when he suddenly picked up the child on the floor, who was crying and sniffling with wide eyes — so he could react like a normal child — and carried him to the cupboard under the stairs in the hall. They had been planning to take the child there when he got a bit older, maybe four or five, but this was as good a time as any. He was already potty trained and used to being alone since they often left him to his own devices. What was a few years sooner?

And there Harry slept, permanently, when they got a small mattress that wouldn't have to be replaced for many years, with sheets and covers, they couldn't let the child die after all in the winter, no matter who's spawn he was; he had been seen by neighbors when they took him over to a spotty neighbor of theirs to look after him when they went out. The freak never called her 'mum' again, barely speaking unless to voice his hunger, and Petunia knew he had finally learned his place, that place being nothing more than a burden and unwanted body to feed and care for. A freak that deserved no warmth or love. And he wouldn't act against them if he didn't wish to be disciplined by her or, more likely, Vernon again.

She never noticed the subtle displacement of things in the room every time she or her husband reprimanded the child. Nor did she notice the moments when said child began to flinch away when they came near him and something not unlike nausea turn his already fair skin pallid. If she had, she thought it was in fear and raised her chin as if that was how it was meant to be.

She rather liked what she had seen, Harry being almost constantly out of their view, "out of sight, out of mind" didn't the saying go? The way he shied from their touch whenever they couldn't avoid touching the freak, the way he refused to so much as say a word unless they demanded a response, the way he never went near Dudley, though she felt offended that the freak wouldn't want to go near her darling Duddie that was perfection itself with his blond hair and blue eyes, but it was better that way. She wouldn't want any of his freakiness near her baby anyway, even if he had long stopped hissing.

And so, four years passed, overall the same, she and her family happy and as content as they could be with the freak intruding on them, and Harry steadily became independent in a way that Petunia would've seen as odd had she not ignored him so studiously.

Only when he and Dudley started school at St. Grogory's Primary School did she begin to realize he was far more freakish than they had thought.

 **{TUoM}**

Harry Potter was not a sad child despite his neglectful upbringing. In spite of being locked inside a small, dark cupboard under creaky stairs, being ignored and mistreated at every turn, being deprived of food just because his aunt and uncle conveniently "forgot" to bring him dinner, he never just sat in the silence of his "room" and cried in self-pity. Quite the opposite actually, though in the beginning he had trouble sleeping alone in the silence filled only by the soft movements of _things_ he couldn't see.

By the time he was five, he had grown accustomed to his living arrangements and even liked it, to a degree, since it separated him from his relatives. It wasn't really that he feared them, well, maybe his uncle's reprimands, but not enough to hide away from them each day. He stayed away for several reasons. One indeed being to avoid getting disciplined, but it wasn't among the more important reasons. A predominant reason was so he could freely read the books he may or may not have been allowed to take from the shelf of books in the sitting room.

Harry loved to read, it had been his passion and escape since he was just older than four and had overheard his aunt teaching, _trying_ rather, his cousin the alphabet and simple words. Dudders, to her frustration, could barely sit still through her lessons and squirmed and complained every step of the way, throwing a fit when he didn't understand until his mother let him go and play. Harry, having no toys to play with or any other distractions, sneakily, for a four year old, nicked the book his aunt was teaching out of and learned what he thought was rather fascinating. He'd seen his uncle and aunt sit for hours "reading", so what could be better to learn?

It took him just a few days to memorize the alphabet, he had an acceptable memory though not photographic, but it took weeks before he learned more than a hundred words. Just simple things like colors and animals, then he advanced to actually forming sentences, starting with short, incomplete phrases before learning about prepositions and verbs and nouns, and so much more. In less than three months, he got it to where he could read beginning level books, which he also nicked from the shelf that his aunt apparently bought for her son's use, and steadily increased to higher level ones with larger words and more pages.

After a bit over six months, he could understand the children books perfectly and moved to larger books containing fairytales. He particularly like those, mostly due to the fact they actually had a plot he could learn from instead of the practically meaningless phrases in children books. Chapter books were quite a bit harder to get used to. They were so much more tiring, mentally more than physically, though his eyes were beginning to get irritated by his constant need to squint in the dim light in the cupboard.

It wasn't until eight months after he first began learning to read that it occurred to him to learn to write too. He knew the alphabet and hundreds of words already, how hard could creating sentences be? Very hard, he soon realized. He really hadn't much to say, but he could just write random things or quotes from what he read. What was hard was the actual writing part. His letters looked like they were drawn by an infant merely imitating what they saw! His letters were so unsteady, so crooked, barely readable and he _loathed_ it. He took a break from reading a bit, about two or three hours a day, to focus on his writing. His focus and persistence were strange for his age, but Harry Potter wasn't born to be normal.

He wasn't satisfied until his writing was as legible as the print in his books. His letter were still a bit large, but they were no longer shaky and questionable in their meaning. It was nothing fancy either though, he wasn't even going to attempt _cursive_ , he had learned the cursive alphabet too, but his hand already hurt and he was really missing out on his long hours of reading. Though he knew that would probably cut down soon since he was almost done with the limited supply of books available in the open bookshelves that were on his level. Aside from those intended for Dudley, there were books and magazines his aunt and uncle likely read and he didn't feel confident enough to take them without them noticing.

Beside reading, a substantial reason Harry preferred to be out of the presence of his relatives was because he found himself getting...sick often when they were near. He wasn't exactly sure when it started, but began to notice early in his fourth year that when his uncle stalked toward him in anger for whatever he did — he never really knew what, since his uncle merely labeled it as "freakish" — the measly food in his stomach that he might or might not have eaten began to churn slightly. He was sure it was only a slight tinge of sickness that caused the blood to leave his face when it began, but it gradually grew to where he actually tasted a bit vomit in his mouth when his uncle, aunt or cousin got within feet of him.

Harry really didn't understand why he reacted such a way. He knew they didn't want him, that his parents hadn't even wanted him and shoved him onto them unwillingly when they died, and he disliked them for it, but he didn't hate or fear them enough to get sick from just being near them. He was pretty sure he didn't. So he added his nausea to the list of things that made him a "freak", or so they called him.

That list was another reason. When he realized there were specific things that caused his uncle's or aunt's anger, he began to make the list. There were many little petty things that angered his relatives, just looking at them —mainly Duddlikins — the "wrong way" or "breathing too loudly" to name a few, but there were three at the top of the list. The one he understood the least and were arguably the most significant facets of himself that shaped him. Well, the first two shaped him, the third was just a confusing reason he honestly didn't get.

Apparently, he was "too pretty". First off, that was just plain offensive. He may have been five, but he was still a boy. What boy wanted to be called pretty of all things? And it wasn't as if it were true, not that he could really decide such a fact. He had hardly been exposed to such words as _pretty_ or _beautiful_ or _handsome_ excluding when his aunt or uncle complimented Dudley, so he couldn't really make a proper judgement about his looks. He even stared at a mirror for almost an hour trying to figure out what they meant. If their words describing his cousin were anything to go by, he was far from pretty. Dudley was plump and skin flushed with blond hair and blue eyes, a far cry from his pale complexion that never changed along with his wild jet black hair and vibrant green eyes. He was quite thin and bony too. Why would they call him pretty?

The second on the list was a bit easier to comprehend. His relatives didn't take well to his rather steep learning curve. He didn't think he was anything special — he had no comparison after all — but he had taken note that what he caught on to in practically moments took his older cousin considerably longer. His aunt and uncle spurned him for that, drilling into him that he wasn't better than him just because of it. Harry hadn't thought he was any smarter than Dudley, even if they hadn't tried to drive the fact into him. He came to the logical conclusion that due to not being as distracted and preoccupied, though not with those words, he had much more time to devote his attention and focus on what he was learning. Unfortunately, he never could voice this reasoning to his aunt and uncle since his nausea was growing worse and they wouldn't have listened anyway.

While Harry still didn't have any idea why he grew nauseous in his family's presence — he didn't know if it extended to others since he never left the house so he assumed it was just them — but he knew it was connected to reason number one at the top of his list that drove his relatives his uncle especially, past the point of angered to enraged.

At the top of the list was his "freakish" tendencies.

Harry didn't completely understand _this_ one until he witnessed his tendency first hand. Before, he just thought his uncle was just wantonly blaming him for breaking objects around the room and things suddenly changing color or something of the like. He never connected the instances to his emotional outbursts until it happened when he was alone.

He realized these strange occurrences were his fault when he was in his cupboard after finding out he would finally be attending primary school. He had read a bit about it from one of the high level books that he didn't completely get that at the age of five, children started their education. He wasn't sure if his aunt and uncle would let him, so finding out he _could_ and in just a few months he _would_ , he was understandably excited. Not only excited but positively exuberant, practically splitting his face with the huge smile he got just thinking about what he'd finally be able to do.

Now he'd finally be able to leave the house. Breathe in the fresh air and see more of the world outside the rare flashes from a TV screen. Now he could meet other people, and maybe, just maybe make friends. And most of all, he could finally learn freely! Schools meant libraries, and libraries meant books! He would be able to read so much, learn of so may more things. He'd read them all! Fiction and non-fiction alike, though he preferred fiction. Fantasy, science fiction, historical, thriller, horror, realistic, drama — well, maybe not drama — and so many more! He just couldn't wait any longer; his body nearly vibrated with excitement and he could feel it rushing in his body, bursting —

And that was when one of his pillows exploded in a ball of feathers and cotton fabric. His viridian orbs went wide with shock and disbelief. _He_ had done that? Destroyed a pillow — a flat, hard one, but one of his only pillows nonetheless — with his excitement? He remembered the feeling of something rushing through him vaguely and knew automatically that it _was_ him. That it _was_ his ability, power, whatever that caused it and that it was likely the cause of all other odd events in the house too.

And it was likely what caused his relatives to hate and neglect him.

He didn't know whether or not his ability was a curse or a blessing, but it wasn't going to go away. Quite the opposite in fact. If he remembered correctly, around the time his nausea began, strange things began to happen around the house. They happened more and more, and his nausea grew worse and worse. Were they connected? Or just a coincidence? He didn't know but he knew one day he would find out.

That discovery, however, had to wait since he had to prepare for his attendance at school. His relatives had taken he and his cousin out shopping for supplies. More accurately, they'd taken Dudley toy shopping and made a side trip for supplies, though the vast majority of what they bought were objects for Dudley's entertainment. Harry was just along for the ride, staying a moderate distance away from them to keep from sicking up his meager dinner from the night before.

He didn't particularly care that they didn't even speak to him, other than saying _Don't touch that!_ or _Don't say anything to anyone!_ before going back to spoiling their son, he was too awed by his surroundings to care. There were so many people and buildings! He hadn't thought London would be so much busier than Surrey. It was just noon so it wasn't very crowded, but it was far more than back in Little Whinging. He saw a store with lots of plants, another with food like bread while the one beside had meats, there was even one with walls of books! He really wanted to try that one.

To his dissapointment, he didn't get to explore any of these new sights since his uncle kept a sharp eye on him. So he could only look as his relatives prattled on and on about how wonderfully their Duddlikins would look and do in school, enjoying themselves as they catered to Dudley's whims and wishes. It wasn't until they had to get clothes fitting within St. Grogory's dress code that Harry was included. There was no uniform since it was only primary school, but there was a certain amount of expectancy and standards for the students.

This meant not only Dudley but _he_ would get clothes. New clothes. Maybe even fitting. He usually only received oversized clothing in not terrible condition but not mint either that were similar to what hed seen his cousin wearing the year before. Not that he could complain anyway, he was just glad they gave him new clothes when he outgrew others, which wasn't often so new clothes were rare. He couldn't imagine what getting brand new clothes, his size, would be like. It was unlikely his relatives would let him choose them but he could still daydream.

After getting the supplies needed, they drove a short way to a clothes shop. Harry's eyes were wide when they went in. Everything looked like it cost a fortune. The shop was clearly for the middle-class and above with its expensive fabrics and immaculate styles, there was formal and casual wear, simple and complex designs, but all of it was high class — and out of his league. There was no way they would be getting him clothes from here.

Harry wasn't surprised when his uncle ordered him to stay out of the way by the door while Dudley was measured for tailored clothes. His cousin whined through the entire process, once again, until his parents gave to his complaints and ordered the man taking the measurements to hurry up. When the measurements were taken, they payed and gave the address of where the clothes were to be sent along with whatever accessories Dudley wanted. Not long after, they were leaving the establishment without purchasing anything else, just as Harry guessed.

Not much later, they arrived at a clothes shop that had a sign reading "second-hand". Harry wasn't completely sure what that meant, so he decided to look it up in a dictionary later. The clothes in the shop weren't anywhere near the quality in the shop Dudley's clothes would come from, but the clothes weren't at all in bad condition. Maybe a few tears here and there or some stray thread, but he wasn't throwing a fit over it.

To his surprise, his aunt gave him free reign to choose his clothing after getting nauseatingly close and informing him about the right things to get and the amount he was allowed. He was only allowed to get six outfits, one outfit including a shirt or sweater, shorts or trousers, and socks. Extras such as a scarf, gloves, a jacket and wool coat, a pair of semi-new boots and sneakers were included too. He chose everything a few sizes to large so he could grow into them over the years, since he knew it was very unlikely they'd take him again.

He was ecstatic as he carried his slightly sloppily folded stack to the cashier, too ecstatic to feel the growing churning of his stomach. His aunt was a few feet behind him, face twisted unpleasantly in what was supposed to be a motherly smile, so he unconsciously decided that was the cause. When he sat the clothes on the cashiers table, smiling happily at the man behind, he finally noticed he felt worse than he usually did. Again, though consciously this time, he assumed it was his aunt's proximity, she'd been near longer than normal. It was only when the hands of the cashier briefly touched his as they exchanged clothes that he realized it was the man.

The nausea suddenly surged at the short touch and he clapped his hands over his mouth as he fought the urge to gag. He ignored the worried the concerned questioning of the cashier as he backed away as far as he could, going as far as outside to get fresh air. The air helped a bit, but he felt his nausea grow slightly. When he looked around he realized there were more people than before they had went in; he had to clench his teeth every time someone came near and swallow hard.

Harry couldn't believe what this meant. It was only his relatives that made him feel like vomiting, but _all people._ He knew it wasn't a good idea to make assumptions, like he had with the fact he got sick around his relatives, but this was a different matter entirely. If he got sick around _everyone_ , then what would going to school be like? A shock of fear and nausea went through him at the thought. He'd be constantly surrounded by hundreds of children and people who made him gag, he would never have the peace he desired away from his relatives' home. He was going to be miserable for the rest of his life, wasn't he?

He was still reeling in shock and stewing in resignation when his relatives came out of the store. His aunt shoved the bags of his clothes in his arms and began to reprimand him over what he'd done to the cashier. Apparently he had stirred trouble over what his problem was and gave them a bad image. He didn't even flinch away from her closeness as she chastised him, though the nausea was still there, and he realized something. The presences of his relatives' weren't as sickening as the cashier's or anyone else who'd come near him. Did that mean he had gotten used to them?

He thought over the matter as his relatives shopped for an hour more before Dudley started crying over being hungry and heading back to Surrey. If he really had gotten used to their presence, maybe he could get used to others. Or at least to the point where he didn't want to upchuck his last meals. If it was possible, he would have to do it before school began and that was less than a month away! He was fast learner though, he assured himself, and he was determined so he would do it.

In the few weeks before school, Harry forced himself to be near his relatives as much as possible. His endeavor was made easier when his aunt began to teach him how to cook simple meals and care for the garden or the house, but he didn't particularly enjoy the first week when he threw up at the end of each day from being near them for so long. Thankfully, the vomiting had lessened toward the middle of the second week and he could actually go a few hours without fleeing to the safety of the cupboard. He was making progress. And it only increased as he began to notice little nuances connected to it.

An oddity he noticed within this time was that when he went over to his spotty neighbor's, Mrs. Figg, who owned many strange cats and appliances, he didn't feel sick at all. That wasn't to say he felt well, but he didn't feel at all like puking his guts out. It was strange but he didn't think he could question the woman. She was a bit — mad, he would say if he were ruder — senile, and her stern — harsh — reprimands when he touched something he was too curious to ignore, detracted from the appeal of staying within her non-vomit inducing presence. Her almost dead stare was unsettling too.

He also noticed animals didn't make him sick either, which was why he enjoyed petting some of Mrs. Figg's tamer cats. The others were like rabid rats with extra hair and he swore to never touch them after the first try ended with scratches all over his face, which healed within the night he had noticed. Other than his temporary caretaker's calmer cats — and his Aunt Marge's dog, Ripper, but that was an entirely differnet story — he enjoyed playing with the random strays, rare as they were, that came ever so often. His favorites were the snakes however; he had learned during the third week while he was weeding the garden that he could understand them and he could even speak to them! Though when his aunt caught him picking up a snake, not even speaking at the time, she paled and screamed at him to throw it away and never touch it again. He added his strange affinity to snakes to his list, coming to the conclusion that she already knew about his ability to speak to them.

Despite this, she hadn't revoked his duty to tend to the garden, to his relief. It may have been hard under the sweltering heat of the sun, but he enjoyed taking care of the garden and making it look pretty. He didn't know the names of any of the flowers besides the most obvious as roses or sunflowers, and since he wasn't going to ask his aunt any time soon, he made the goal to find a book on types of flowers, and maybe snakes too on the side. Though if such books were even in St. Grogory's library, he could only wonder and hope.

By the time for primary school's start, Harry was confident that he could last the few hours at school without avoiding people too much. He'd probably never be able to actually befriend someone unless they were like Mrs. Figg, and he was slightly put off by this, but he would make the best of his time away from his aunt and uncle. Time away was even more important now that the incident with his hair had occurred just a few days before. Harry was still shocked and more than a bit angry; how could they do that to him and then act as if they did nothing wrong? Why would his ability work like that? What exactly was it?

A little less than a week before the first day of school, his aunt took him and Dudley to get haircuts. Dudley had complained the entire drive there, insisting that his hair was perfectly fine, but his mother wouldn't budge on this matter, which made him pout like she'd just taken away his cake the entire ride. Harry was reluctant too, for different reasons. It had been weeks since the last time a person had touched him, and regardless of how much he practiced to lessen the effect, he wasn't sure if he could keep his stomach settled with someone cutting his hair so close to him. But this was a trial, he told himself, to test the progress of his control.

And a trial it was. He was pale and stiff as a board as he barber shaved his head nearly bald. He would've been miffed by the act — he _liked_ his hair — and Dudley's boisterous laughter at his expense hadn't he been taking deep breaths to calm his roiling tummy. By the end of his haircut, fifteen minutes later, he was beaming with accomplishment at not even coming close to throwing up. This dismayed his aunt, who had thought he would be sullen after having all his hair chopped off, so she was curt and short with him all the way home but it didn't bother him.

The incident happened the following morning when he awoke in his bed with a full head of hair several inches longer than it had been before it was caught. He noticed that it was a bit tamer too, now that it reached to his small shoulders, but his relatives weren't as calm about the matter. When his cousin caught sight of him, he screamed bloody murder for his mother about how come he got to keep his hair when he didn't. Though it wasn't intended, Dudley's fit caused Harry to lose his meals for the next week. Not from being sick, no, he was over that with his relatives as far as he could see, but from the shocked and enraged reactions from his aunt and uncle.

His aunt had spoke in a soft, scathing tone about how she recalled his mother being just as much of a freak. That had hurt a bit, but it sparked a bit of realization. His mother had also had abilities like his own. He couldn't dwell on that thought, however, because his uncle had heard the ruckus and joined in with his own input. His uncle yelled and bellowed at him to stop with his "freakishness", dirtying their home with just his very presence within its walls. He hadn't responded and his uncle suddenly stormed up to him and grabbed him by his newly grown hair.

Harry was overwhelmed by his sudden proximity, despite getting used to it, and the pain of his hair being torn at the roots. He closed to eyes to the strong simultaneous feeling of nausea mix with pain and couldn't restrain himself from screaming " _Don't touch me!_ " He hadn't realized what he had just done until he heard the sound of glass shattering. He opened his eyes that he'd screwed shut from pain and saw a photo of his relatives in a frame with its glass in pieces all over the floor.

There was silence for a moment before his uncle roared and threw him to the ground — _toward the picture he'd just destroyed._ He cried out in pain as shards of glass pierced arm and the side of his face that he couldn't dodge. The pain was so sharp he almost didn't hear his uncle bellowing again. " _You damn freak! How dare you!_ " His uncle yelled, but he didn't look at him as he moved away from the glass on floor, scooting away weakly from the spray of shards.

He did, however, look up when his uncle yelled again. " _Dudley, go to your room! Go!_ " Harry heard the frantic, heavy steps of his cousin as he ran up stairs to his room. He flinched at the menacing look on his uncle's red face and the blatant disgust on his aunt's. " _Didn't I tell you to stop with the freakish behaviour? Didn't I warn you about the next time you did something freaky? Well? Didn't I, boy?!_ " Harry couldn't even nod as he began to shake in fear. He didn't even notice he was crying. " _I've had enough of you, you freak!_ " Was the last thing his uncle said before he reached and unbuckled the belt around his waist.

Harry didn't like remembering what happened next. He could remember everything in disturbing detail. His uncle stalking towards his shaking limp body on the floor as he held his costly leather belt. His lips forming soundless shapes as he repeated the words 'no, please don't' over and over. He could clearly remember when his uncle roared his belt and struck it across his back, over and over, harder each time with each word he spoke. " _Didn't. I. Warn. You!_ " And then Harry felt the familiar rush of his power flooding through him and things began to break all over the room. More pictures, vaces, China, glass tables, furniture, everything. And the blows only got harder, his uncle's yells louder and more frantic, the destruction from his power intensifying.

It didn't stop until his aunt screamed that his uncle had done enough. And he knew that it wasn't in cncern for him, but for the room and all their valuables. She didn't didn't care for him. He mattered less than the inanimate objects in their sitting room. He, who was bleeding from not only the shards of glass in his skin, but the cuts from being hit countless times with a leather belt! He felt his power well in him one more time and the scent of something burning as well as heard the sound of his aunt's scream before going unconscious.

He awoke four days later on his bed in the cupboard starving. But he had gone hungry before, though not for as long, so he could put the matter aside for a moment as he realized with a start that he wasn't in pain. He shot up quickly and felt the places where he had been hurt. He slid his small fingers over his cheek and arm that had been littered with glass shards and didn't feel a jolt of pain. There was blood on his skin though, and when he looked down, little pieces of glass were on his sheets and pillow where he'd been laying. _They had been pushed out of his skin._ He realized, and hadn't even left a scar. He moved his hands to his back and felt that it was smooth as well, as if he'd never been beaten with a belt by his uncle. The blood staining and causing his shirt to stick to his skin stated contrary to that though.

His ability had healed him.

Harry stopped breathing for a second as the thought registered. His ability had healed him. He wasn't in pain because of it. What was it? What was this power that made him practically invincible? And why did react when he was feeling strong emotions like happiness or pain? Was it a bad thing? His relatives called him a freak, was that true? He could destroy things just by reacting intensely, heal serious wounds just from sleeping, and he could speak to snakes. Was he really a freak?

He didn't know. And he didn't honestly didn't care because regardless of what it made him, it was _his_ power, and the power was only growing with him. He wouldn't allow his _dear_ aunt and uncle change him to think otherwise. Despite this, he did shudder when he imagined his uncle "disciplining" him again. He didn't want to scorn his ability, but he didn't want to get hurt again. So he would just have to learn to control it. Learn to not allow his emotions to cause it to act out, and maybe learn how to use it at will.

The hair incident went unmentioned afterward by Harry and his relatives both, although he was aware of the increased disdain and resentment in their eyes when looking at him. He no longer cared. And if he were to look back, they'd see the beginnings of similar in his own ghoulishly bright green orbs.

The day of his and Dudley's first day at St. Grogory's was less exciting a prospect than a week before, but exciting nonetheless. While Dudley was kicking and screaming at the idea of staying and learning for seven hours, Harry was all but squirming with impatience to go. He had woken early that morning from the sounds of his aunt hurrying down the stairs to prepare breakfast for her "darling Duddie's" first day. Despite being unused to the early hour, Harry was instantly awake and dressed in the clothes he'd chosen the day before; a dark pair of shorts and a grey short sleeved T-shirt. He hadn't bought anything fancy, just practical clothing for the summer that could also be used in the winter. He was ready within thirty minutes but waited the next hour and a half for Dudley to be woken and prepared.

They left once they were done with breakfast, they left for St. Gorgons Primary School. Harry was vaguely impressed by the school, having never seen anything like it before and rushed in after hearing Dudley start another tearful tantrum with his mother coaxing and coddling him. The sight wasn't one he could see without his lips twisting halfway into a sneer and a grimace of pain. He thought Dudley's reaction was stupid, it wasn't like he'd never be home again, but he also wondered what if he would've did the same if he had a mother.

Harry snapped out of those thoughts as quickly as they'd come and went to where he saw teachers with groups of children his age. He concluded that was where new students were to go and hearing a teacher announcing such assured it. After a moment of observation, he saw the teachers holding signs with letters dashed another letter. He sighed in relief as he realized classes were assigned by surname. Potter was far from Dursley, so he wouldn't have to deal with his older cousin's whining and taunting adopted from his parents.

He moved to the sign saying 'O-P' and immediately had to clench his teeth and breathe deeply as nausea faintly curled in his stomach. He was completely surrounded children on all sounds, and they all felt _repulsive_. It was like being bombarded on all sides by the scent of sickening _rot_ minus the scent of decay. At least he thought the scent wasn't there. He smelled _something_ though, but he supposed it was more along the lines of...stale?

Harry files the thoughts for perusal later and focused on controlling the faint nausea causing him to breathe deeply. It was a testament to his progress over the past few weeks that he didn't already feel even a hint of bile trying to crawl up his throat while surrounded by dozens of kids and a handful of adults. He tried not to get his hopes however, as it was just the beginning. He had to persevere through seven more hours of feeling close to like crap, and despite his previous excitement, even about the library, he wouldn't enjoy it.

Hopefully, it would get better as the years passed.

By the end of the first day, Harry had discovered several things. First, he really liked to learn. There wasn't much of a lesson since it was the first day, but the teacher, a pleasant looking woman but not so pleasant feeling to his stomach, by the name of Mrs. Halton, told them of what they'd be doing through the year. Reading mostly, or learning to read for many, but also starting math, science, and even history! Some of his enthusiasm returned from that discovery alone.

Second, he discovered he was a bit different from his classmates. Not because of his ability, though he had a feeling there was no one else with it there, but because he was one of those most ahead, if not the. Most of his class knew their numbers, the alphabet and could spell their names, but none could read full books, beside the few who could read short children words with simple words and phrases, or write completely legibly. None of them had come close to the chapter length books he'd began to read just months before. It was a bit worrying. He knew he was a fast learner, but did this mean he was abnormal? He chose not to dwell on that.

Third, the library at St. Grogory's was the best place on earth. He found it during lunch, where they were given an hour to eat since parents commonly picked there children up to eat or play at the playground, and as Harry didn't have a lunch, he asked directions to his desired location from his kind teacher. After wandering the halls, getting lost a few times before he took note of landmarks such a certain billboard in this place and pretty flower picture that place to familiarize himself, he arrived at the large, in comparison to him, wooden doors christened with a plaque stating 'library'.

He went in immediately and was instantly flushed with excitement at the sight of walls and shelves of hundreds of books. It was amazing, he'd never seen so many in one place, so much variety, so much _knowledge_. He nearly squealed as he rushed in, only to freeze when a stern voice snapped at him that there was no running in the library. And that was when he felt the faintest feeling of nausea before noticing an old, grey haired woman behind a desk. The librarian, he presumed, and slowed. She nodded approvingly and didn't say another word to him but the silence was not unkind. He spent the rest of his lunch hour skimming over all the book positions, there genres and general content, trying to memorize the different places, before sitting down in a comfortable cushioned chair as he found a book over flowers.

Not only was the library a place for books of all kinds, it was silent and few people were ever there. It became his safe haven for the next six years at St. Grogory's.

Fourth, he came to the conclusion that children could be very cruel. He wasn't on the receiving end, but he had seen a boy not too much older than him fall down several steps, not enough to get seriously hurt but enough for it to be painful, and no one moved to help him. No, there were children all around him, laughing gleefully. Maybe it wasn't intended to be cruel, laughing at the boy who'd just hurt himself by falling and not even moving to aid him, but it was. Harry had gritted his teeth when he happened by the scene on his way back from the library and was going to help, but a teacher came and dispersed the laughing and giggling students before taking the fallen, crying boy to the nurse.

Harry didn't understand why they laughed. He had _fallen down the stairs._ Not far, but what if he had? Would they have done anything then? What if they had fallen? Would they appreciate being laughed at while in pain?

He honestly didn't know that children didn't usually empathize the way he just had, but what he did know was that children could be nearly as cruel as adults, just for the fact they laughed and did nothing.

Fifth, as the day concluded, Harry realized he would more likely than not find no friend at St. Grogory's. He could probably find kindness and friendly exchanges with a few, but he knew finding a friend who he could be himself with — whatever that meant — wasn't going to happen in place where every presence caused some degree of nausea. Presumptuous as the five year old's thoughts may have sounded, it was almost intuitive, this belief, and it would only be supported by the years to pass.

Harry, though, sincerely hoped he was wrong. He didn't want to be alone.

On the trip back to his relatives' house, Harry was silent as he immersed himself in his thoughts. He ignored Dudley's boastful recount of the day, as if he hadn't already spoken to them during lunch when hpthey most certainly came, which included that of the boy who fell down the stairs. The elder Dursleys laughed with their child as he embellished the event, even exaggerating that the boy had soiled his trousers during the fall, but Harry didn't even give him more than glance. He already knew how cruel children could be, Dudley was just one of many. Hopefully that would change, but he seemed to enjoy mimicking his parents so Harry doubted it.

He wondered if his school life would ever improve. Hopefully, it would, but that too, Harry doubted.

 **{TUoM}**

After nearly three years of schooling, at seven bordering on eight, Harry could firmly say that he was different. That wasn't factoring his abilities, but his pure, mental capabilities. While Harry was no genius, there was an ease to learning almost everything he came by that would give people the impression that he was. But he knew he wasn't. Due to his memory and quick mind, he could make connections that lead to his high success in every field offered in school. Though, he chose not to show the full extent of his mental prowess in school, mostly due to the fact that he didn't care enough to be put on a pedestal, nor the bullying of his fellow students, or the "disciplining" of his aunt and uncle.

Not to say that limited his learning in any way. Harry didn't enjoy school very much, as the lessons on his level were often so droll and boring he actually fell asleep in class — subsequently, getting in trouble with his teacher, leading to his learning and mastery of sleeping with his eyes open — but he went, if only for the library. He had been through hundreds of the books there, of all genres, non-fiction and fiction, but had paced himself so he hadn't finished them all before he completed his primary schooling. He learned of many subjects due to his reading in the library, and at his sleeping accommodation once he learned he could check out books, and broadened the scope of information he took in from things like flower names, meanings, and uses in remedies, to the establishment of ancient civilizations millennia ago.

History would never be his favorite subject despite that reading material. His favorite had been, and would always be the pure subject of reading and English. Science was a close second, who didn't like the study of the many organisms that live and once lived on earth? Third was music. It was only an elective but he loved all kinds of music, especially that of the piano and guitar, which he learned a bit of the former in music class. He had to tone it down however, when it came to the music teacher's attention he learned an entire composition, as simple as it was, in about of week. Harry lamented the slow progress, after all, music was one of the few things that distracted him from the nausea of having someone so close, which had become far easier to control in three years but it wasn't gone, it never would.

His next favorite subject was history, he enjoyed learning of the past, but it wasn't anything of serious importance. Then there was math. He guessed. Math wasn't something he was too interested in. It was uselessly complicated, not on his grade level, but where he was in his personal studies. Who would need to use PEMDAS or BIDMAS in real life? It was utter bullocks in his opinion. A waste of time unless you were going into a career that required extensive math.

Harry honestly couldn't stand his advanced mental capacity at times. He couldn't enjoy school at all due to it, and he refused to show the extent of it so he couldn't even be taught the things he really wanted. Like a foreign language for example. He had found a English-French dictionary at the Dursleys' and he became enamored with the language. This lead to him looking for French lesson books in the library, but he realized even if he became fluent in reading the language, he had no idea how to speak it! He couldn't ask the French teacher, the class was for fourth years and above — _not_ understandable, they should start younger, it opened up the mind more, it was a proven fact — and he couldn't show his true abilities, once again.

It was bloody maddening! School just wasn't occupying him anymore than peripherally, but thankfully, he wasn't too bored. On the side, since he was five, Harry had been trying to control his abilities. It took months to get to the point where he wasn't disturbing things around him with his outbursts of emotion and twice as long to even touch the power that flowed through him in those instances. He was around six and a quarter when he figured out how to tap into it. It required him to feel some kind of emotion strongly in the beginning and desire for something to happen. He hadn't figured out how to choose what happened until he was frustrated after being stuck for weeks and wished for something specific.

That was when he discovered once he gathered the power, he had to use his will and imagine a desired outcome. When he did this for the first time, he was able to make one of his pencils levitate. He was was so excited by the small feat, the pencil suddenly shot through the air and stabbed several inches into the ceiling of the cupboard. After several more tries, success and failure wavering, leaning more towards failure until he had the technique down enough to be successful at least three out of four tries, he moved onto heavier objects. The largest he got to was the couch in the sitting room when he was home alone, and when that was successful, he moved to multiple objects. Splitting his attention between objects of varying weights was far more mentally exhausting than school had ever been and he loved it.

He did exercises much the same until he thought himself ready to levitate himself. Again, this took place in the sitting room, at night when the Dursleys were practically dead in their sleep so they wouldn't be awakened by sounds of him falling...or so he hoped. He made sure to stay close to the long couch as he tried it on himself. It didn't work at first, likely due to his nervousness but he finally slapped himself out of his doubts and trusted in his abilities that had only protected throughout his life.

Soon, he was floating in the air and it was like there was no gravity. Or rather, there was, and he could feel his weight, but it wasn't restricting and he was almost flying. He could twist and turn as if he were in the moon's low gravity and stand upside down on the ceiling, though for some curious reason, he didn't feel his blood rushing to his head. In fact, throughout the entire experience, his blood flowed exactly as it would have had he been standing upright. Was that a product of his power protecting him or could it be that he was actually using an ability other than just levitation?

The thoughts shot his control to where he fell but he was above the couch and his landing was barely audible. His curiosity shifted over from his newest mastery of levitation, to a degree, to what else he could do. He recalled instances when things suddenly disappeared and appeared elsewhere when no one had touched it — teleportation? — when things had broken as pressure had pressed on it, when things burst into flames, rarely — pyromania? Or elements in general — and when things changed appearance.

The last and first seemed the safest to judge, so he decided to test them first and hone his control before moving on to more dangerous abilities like fire and pressure manipulation. The following months were spent experimenting with changing the appearance and composition of an object, slightly harder than levitation but it was more versatile in the sense that he could change anything into whatever he wanted just by imagining it with enough detail and an equal amount of will to maintain it. He learned there were limitations to it though, such as the fact that what he transformed would inevitably change back to what it was previously though he could change the duration it stayed in the appointed state, or that the object of change could be in as intricate as detail as he could imagine and feel in every way as if it truly was the object and if you didn't know it actually wasn't, you'd never know.

Harry personally enjoyed this very much since he learned to use it covertly while with the Dursleys. He often changed vegetables into sweets in order to feed Dudley healthy foods he would've otherwise spurned. It was partly for his training and partly for his amusement to see his cousin thoroughly enjoy the flavor and texture of the things he transformed, a testament to his high imaginative ability, as well as partly for his worry over his cousin's health. He didn't like the boy, he was unreasonably mean to him — such as the creation of 'Harry Hunting', which he was thinking of putting an end to soon, but it did give Dudley exercise — but he didn't utterly despise him like he did his aunt and uncle. He was just a child, emulating the deeds of his parents who hadn't seen fit to teach him right from wrong, so he couldn't blame him completely. He wasn't going to befriend the boy any time soon though, in spite of his presence being far less nauseating than most, they were too dissimilar for it to work.

So he merely worried over his health, like his parents were _supposed_ to. Instead they catered to his every whim, indulged his every gluttonous desire. If Harry hadn't interfered, he feared the boy would some day get diabetes, he was already obese. He'd been losing weight though, with Harry's help, which partly worried the Dursleys, but the boy was healthy, well, healthier before, and they praised the boy for whatever he did who accepted the praise with clear confusion but wouldn't correct them.

Harry cared little for the credit and after deciding he had sufficiently mastered transforming things, he moved to teleportation. And wasn't that an exciting thing to learn, if heart stopping. He'd been utterly unsuccessful until one time when Dudley and his friends were 'hunting' him and he wished that he were anywhere else. To make a short story succinct, he felt a tug in his abdomen and after feeling as if he'd been compressed by a narrow tube of air, he appeared in the library of St. Grogory's, which was thankfully empty. During the following weeks, he managed to replicate the feeling just once and came out of it with serious cuts all over his arms and legs.

He decided to do objects and perfect the ability before trying it on himself again. It wasn't until about six months later, after turning seven, that he attempted it again on himself and came out relative unharmed. He said relative loosely, since he was missing a few strands — an entire half of his head — worth of hair. It grew back and after the next few tries, he could do it seamlessly and silently. He had noticed there was a sound after his second attempt and animals were scurrying away. He considered the possibility they had sensed his power, but he thought it better to be safe to assume there was sound and perfected the smoothness of transitions between disappearing and reappearing at locations. He thought it was rather curious there was no sound when he teleported objects.

Nearing the end of his third year of school, he was beginning on pressure. He assumed it would be something akin to the compression that occurred during teleportation. It differed greatly however, since it was much harder to control. He had to focus on a single point, imagining the pressure like that of an icepick, and it lead to the intense gouging of a hole into the tree he had been practicing on. The penetrative power of the pressure shocked him and he concluded that he would need to learn to limit the amount of power behind the pressure.

Making that decison, he had continued with his gardening, tending to the impressive array of unnatural plants his aunt had managed to successfully stuff within her garden. Harry, to this day, couldn't figure out how tiger lilies managed to sprout out of nowhere. He couldn't find it in him to care as he tended to the plants, pulling the rampant growth of weeds due to his unfortunate negligence after a week.

There was a particularly stubborn weed that wouldn't uproot no matter how hard he pulled, he needed a small shovel to loosen the soil. It hurt his gardener pride slightly and pulled even harder while he split a small fraction of his attention to levitate the hand shovel into his extended hand. He was so focused on the weed he didn't here the door opening just as he caught the tool.

Suddenly a scream of rage pierced the air behind him.

Harry was so surprised, he jumped back, taking the weed with him, but he couldn't feel any smug appreciation as his aunt stormed up to him, spouting diatribe about him being such an incorrigible freak, practically spitting in his face before she grabbed him and pulled him into the house, calling for Vernon at the same time. Dread began to settle in Harry's gut, mixing viciously with the nausea of his aunt's proximity despite her being as nausea inducing as her son, as he realized what was about to happen.

There had only been one other instance when his uncle had hurt him seriously after the hair incident when he was five and that was when he and Dudley had received there first grade reports from school. Dudley's scores were on average C with a single B in his favorite subject of art — Duddlikins had a surprising talent for painting — which he never really tried too hard in but tried enough that it was substantially better than his core class grades. Harry's grades were all B's and one A, the B's only because he toned down his abilities and the A in his favorite subject of reading. His substantially better grades enraged his aunt and uncle and lead to his uncle taking a belt to his back again. There were only a handful of outbursts this time compared to last, nothing too destructive, but it made his uncle lash at his back to the point he had to be carried to his room and also over twent-four hours to recover. He forced himself to lower his grades to just barely passing B minuses on all but reading which he refused to get anything less than an A minus.

This would be the third and worst time he would be "disciplined" and if he had anything to do with it, the last. But he would accept this one last time. It was his own fault for getting careless while out in the open. Not only had he done it out in the open, he had alluded to the fact that he was able to control his abilities. Who knew to what extent his uncle would try to beat it out of him? This was his punishment for being inattentive. It wouldn't happen again.

His aunt dragged him before his uncle and he stood there obedient and waiting for his punishment. He payed little mind to the cruel words his walrus of an uncle spouted, and the gleeful malice his horse of an aunt sported as he glared at the ground. He despised pain, _loathed_ it as much as he did his aunt and uncle, but he knew his power would heal him afterwards and during the act of abuse poorly disguised as "discipline".

He wasn't surprised when his uncle cursed him for his lack of response to his taunts — learning control of power meant a great deal of control over emotions — and grabbed his hair in a move he seemed to favor and shoved him to the floor. The familiar leather belt was out — no, this one was black, shiny and brand new, perfect for whipping a seven year old, no? He was a bit surprised when his uncle ordered him to reveal his bare back, probably to bathe himself in the sick pleasure of the sight of the scars he'd left. Unfortunately, he hadn't left scars, Harry's power assured that, and it infuriated Vernon even more to see the silky pale skin.

The next few moments, minutes, hours, Harry lost track of time, spent with Vernon lashing out furiously at his back, sometimes hitting his head and legs too, maybe on purpose, maybe on accident. There were no explosions or juvenile destruction of property this time around, and for some reason that brought on an even stronger bout of strikes. Harry could feel thick rivulets of blood flow down his burning back, hot tears down his cheeks, and a thin stream of blood from where he bit his lip to hold back screams of pain. He wouldn't allow them to hear him cry out again and _enjoy_ his pain and suffering.

About an hour after the start of his "discipline", Harry collapsed limply to the ground and Vernon dragged his body to the cupboard callously, pulling his arm in a way that nearly dislocated it as he threw him into the small makeshift room. All the locks were locked and the key thrown away as Harry slept for six days.

When Harry awoke, he was completely healed once again and starving. He didn't think of food, however, but of what needed to be done. He was growing tired of the neglectful and abusive treatment, but he was used to it. He wouldn't do anything to them — if he did, that would make him _like_ them, something he was repulsed by even more than their sheer existences — but if they dared to whip him with a belt one more time, he would make them change their ways. He wouldn't threaten them, he would warn them. He wasn't naive enough to believe they would accept him, but he could bloody well _force_ them not touch him ever again.

If they made him, he would show them the so-called "power of the devil" they accused him of.

 **{TUoM}**

During the last year of his attendance at St. Grogorys as a ten year old, Harry noticed the increasingly vexed and hateful glares his aunt sent his way for no reason at all. He mostly ignored the looks, having endured them for years already, and focused on more important things, such as more abilities he'd discovered. A few new uses of his power popped up since he gained control.

Among those uses was the ability to heighten his senses by directing his power to the trasnducers of sensations, i.e. the ears, eyes, mouth, nose, and skin. By directing his power to these places, he could hear the soft sound of ants crawling, see the individual leaves of a tree from hundreds of meters away, taste foods so thoroughly he could distinguish all the ingredients used, smell the distinct scents each person had — everyone was different, regardless of soaps or perfumes used to coat it — and feel the minutest amounts of pressures. It was amazing but too overwhelming for him to comprehend so he refrained from doing it often.

Another ability was that of erasing something from existence. He happened by this power when he was being chased by Dudley's friends — Dudley was sick at home that day, but they continued the 'hunt' — and cornered in a small alcove between buildings. He usually would've gotten away from them already, having gotten rather fast after years of being 'hunted', but he hadn't factored in the fact Dudley's friends were faster when not being slowed by the larger, though not as large as he would've been without his interference, boy leading them. He also didn't factor in the fact that his cousin had been somewhat tempering the childish cruelty of his friends. He only realized this when Dudley's friends began to throw rocks at him while taunting and laughing at him.

The pain wasn't the worst he'd ever experienced, but he still loathed it. He still loathed the naive cruelty of children as they laughed at another's pain. And he absolutely loathed being on the receiving end of it — though not as much as just watching from the sidelines. In a rare moment of anger, Harry lost control of power and felt it flood through him into his surroundings. He snapped out of it quickly though and restrained his outburst as quickly as he could before looking to gauge the damage he'd done. It was an understatement to say he was shocked when he saw all the rocks within his and his 'hunted' vicinity were all gone, those that had been thrown and those that had not both. The boys who'd been throwing rocks were shocked as well. Needless to say, they bolted after screaming he was a freak and monster.

And thus the discovery of making things vanish and the impromptu end of 'Harry Hunting'. It took him a few weeks to get it down but he rarely used it since he didn't know whether they really disappeared from existence or just went to somewhere intangible.

A recent ability he found a few months after his tenth birthday. He was curled in his bed under covers he'd mended reading a fascinating novel about a kingdom once ruled by wizards. Harry was enamored with a scene where the main character, a boy who'd been orphaned and had to survive by thieving and deceiving people, discovered he was the final descendant of the last Wizard King, the mad king that nearly destroyed the world a millennia before. It was just getting to the part when the objects restraining his power since he was an infant, cuffs, were being removed when Harry felt the soft sensation of something crawling along his arm. Something big.

Harry couldn't prevent himself from jumping and heard whatever was crawling on him hit the floor and then a series of fast clicks. He threw his covers off himself to catch sight of _huge_ — well, not huge, it was only around six inches in length, but it was the largest he'd seen in the cupboard — spider crawling towards the door. He didn't particularly like spiders but he'd never seen one like it before. It was small bodied but had disproportionately long legs and was a snow white color with red and pink marks along its main body. He honestly didn't like spiders, but this one fascinated him and he wanted to observe it. The spider was crawling away quickly, however, and in he couldn't help crying out, _No! Stop! Come back!_ since he was unwilling to use levitation, or telekinesis he believed it to be, on it.

He was surprised to see the arachnid actually stop in its journey to the crack under the door and slowly turn in his direction before walking back to his position obediently. His book fell from his grasp as he realized he had just used his power to manipulate the spider, a living creature. He didn't know whether to be repulsed or ecstatic over the discovery that he could extend his will onto living creatures. Regardless of that, he knew it was unwise to leave the ability uncontrolled and spent the next six months learning to control his ability to manipulate creatures, which included insects, bugs and animals. He learned the complexity of the command he gave differed depending on the intricacy of the subject's nervous system and intelligence, so animals were easier to control than insects or bugs. He briefly considered how it would work with other people, who were the most complex creatures in intelligent thought, but dismissed the idea on the grounds that it'd be cruel to rob someone of their will. The same went for animals but he had to learn somehow.

When he had an amount of control with using words, he began to extend his will with just thoughts and power alone, but he gave it up once he succeeded six out of ten tries. He wasn't keen on using the ability at all, it left a bad taste in his mouth.

A lesser ability he learned was how how to change his appearance. He could invoke the change in two ways. One was to use his transforming ability, which made whatever part of himself he'd changed look and feel like they'd always been that way. The second could be considered the opposite where it was something of an illusion that merely veiled, or rather layered what he envisioned over his actual visage. He preferred the first since it was far more thorough but the second was faster and easier to disengage if he was caught with it — which he never was, but if he had, he was pretty sure he could get away with it.

The last ability Harry found was at the start of the summer before his eleventh birthday. In his opinion, it was the most useful of the ones he'd found in a while if irritating in its limitations. He discovered that he could create things. Perhaps that was the wrong term but he couldn't pin a better name on it. He found the ability when he was practically boiling in the sun as he worked in the garden. He was wearing long sleeves and loose sweatpants to keep from getting sunburned but it had the unfortunate consequence of making him even hotter.

As he slaved away at the once again rampant growth of weeds, he wished for nothing more than something to block the sun. An umbrella, a giant leaf, rain clouds, a bloody eclipse, he'd even go for a simple _cap_ as long as it was wide rimmed and blocked out the bloody sunlight!

And then there was suddenly a black, wide rimmed cap sitting innocently on the ground beside his foot. He really should've been used to his power randomly making things happen, but he was still a smidge gobsmacked by this ability. It was still impressive with the restraints of not being able to create edible substances, such as drinks and foods, or living creatures with actual _life_ — the 'creatures' he did create were little more than mimicries of the real thing imitating how living things would act. Though, he may have been a bit biased since his ability allowed him to perfectly reproduce a guitar he could play anytime he wanted, before it vanished to the time duration restraint, similar to transformation ability's limitation: whatever he changed or created would revert back to its original state, which was _nothing_ in his creation ability's case.

Harry had still been experimenting with the ability when his cousin's birthday arrived. The Dursleys' had a small family giving of presents to Dudley, which numbered at exactly thirty-nine with Harry's own, before leaving for the zoo. Harry was surprised there were no complaints from Dudley this year, he usually commented on how many or how large they were, but he was perfectly content. Well, for _him_. He was still loud and petulant about not getting to invite any friends. Contrary to what he expected, Dudley hadn't complained that he had come with them due to Mrs. Figg being unable to babysit him. There was the possibility he feared him now, probably hearing from his old 'hunting gang' what he'd done, but it was only speculation.

Though Harry supposed his aunt and uncle more than made up for the lack of complaints to his presence. They sneered none too subtle references to his burdensome presence while apologizing to Dudley and explaining it was supposed to be a private event. If going to a zoo could be considered private. Unless they reserved the entire establishment, there was no chance of them having any private, family moments. Harry internally scoffed at the idea, Vernon _would_ do it, but he likely hadn't even thought about it or couldn't afford to. Either way, the trip to the zoo was fool of barely concealed slights to his presence and he stayed far away from them when they finally arrived.

The visit was utterly boring and uneventful other than a brief conversation with a confined boa from South America. In a moment of decisiveness, he freed it, which lead to people fleeing in manic terror and he zoo closing down early. There was a moment of amusement when his uncle and aunt accused him of being responsible but was unable to prove it so the matter was left alone soon after. Boredom overcame him once more for the rest of the day, even when he saw the faces of his relatives when Dudley opened his present. It was a homemade set of paints he made from a curious concoction of plant oils and parts along with other things he payed nothing to acquire, and Dudley actually thanked him for it. Harry had accepted the surprising gratitude and retreated to his place under the stairs to read a fantasy book he was given from a bankrupt bookstore he'd happened by.

The next month wasn't eventful either, though he did notice the substantial growth in his aunt's biting comments on how worthless and bothersome he was. It was getting harder and harder to ignore when she began to verbally attack him everyday at every opportunity they met, which was often in the summer since he took care of many things, the garden, cooking and other small responsibilities to name a few. He was actually grumbling about the fact his dear Aunt Petty calling him increasingly degenerating names when he was checking the mail one late July morning. He was separating the bills from unimportant missives and advertisements when he spotted a letter, seemingly handwritten in an elegant cursive script, with his name and the place of his abode — " _The Cupboard Under the Stairs_ " — which sparked his interest immediately. _No one_ knew that was where he slept, who sent this letter and for what reason?

Harry separated his letter from what he would give his uncle and strided into the sitting room where Vernon sat reading a newspaper. He handed the stack to him and turned to go back to cupboard when his uncle's voice stopped him.

"What is that, boy?"

Harry paused and looked at his uncle from the corner of his eye. "An envelope with my name on it." He said plainly.

Vernon's nostrils flared and the walrus of a man began to get up. "What? Give it to me," he commanded.

Harry's verdant orbs narrowed at the order. He hadn't obediently obeyed the man's rules like a submissive dog in years, and he expected him to do so now? When he'd just received the first letter in his entire life? Was he stupid? "No."

His uncle's face reddened unattractively. "I won't repeat myself again, boy. _Give me_ the letter if you know what's good for you."

"No," Harry said again, not even considering the threat in his words. In fact, he was _daring_ his uncle to even try to carry out that threat. He had made a decision to not allow the man to punish or discipline him ever again since that time when he was seven. If this was the time to enforce that decision, he would.

Vernon's face twisted and darkened to an ugly puce color. " _Give me the bloody letter, boy! Now_!"

Harry didn't deign to respond this time, merely glaring at the purple faced man with narrowed eyes in disdain and defiance. He didn't look away from the infuriated blue eyes even as he heard his aunt and cousin enter the room, likely drawn from his uncle's last bellow.

"What's going on, Vernon?" Petunia asked her husband with concern, yet still managing to send a late of derision at Harry. "What did the freak do this time?"

"He got the letter." Vernon snarled and Petunia's eyes widened. "He's just as much of a _freak_ as they were."

"Has he read it," Petunia questioned, lip curling into a sneer.

"No, he hasn't," Harry snapped with a faint sibilant lilt of anger. "You know what this is." It wasn't a question.

"Of course we do," Petunia sneered in her high pitched, irritating drawl. She crossed her arms and looked at him down her nose. "It's the same one your freak of a mother received. The letter of passage into _freakhood_ you could say. I'm not surprised you got one."

"What is it?" Harry demanded, growing angry with her insults. He was used to them against himself, but insults targeted at his mother was intolerable. He may not have known her and had only heard bad things in regard to her and his father, but he would be naive to just listen to everything his relatives had said about them.

"Nothing you need concern yourself with," Vernon suddenly snapped. "You will not be going! I will beat that _freakiness_ out of you before you ever _think_ of going."

Vernon started to barrel towards him, face twisted into a monstrous snarl and Harry knew this was the time to showcase just why his uncle would _never_ touch him again. It wasn't hard to tap into his power with the anger flowing through him and he automatically resorted to the power he knew would be the most affective in striking fear and warning in his relatives.

 _" You __will no_ t touch _me, you biogtted walrus!_ " Harry stated through clenched teeth. He smiled when his uncle froze mid step, hands outstretched just feet from him. There was a beat of silence before outrage filled the large man's eyes and he let out an animal-like growl. He ignored him and turned to his aunt who'd begun demanding him to stop whatever freaky voodoo he was working on her husband. " _You will be silent as I read this._ "

Harry still felt it was distinctly wrong to use this ability on people, but he cared a bit less than he would have had the subject of his will not been his uncle and aunt. The use of it was unavoidable though, he needed a proper method to warn them of what could happen if they continued to abuse him. He wouldn't take advantage of the ability, this being his first use of it being proof, but they didn't need to know that. He'd let them think the threat was there at any time, if only to settle his vindictive spite.

Putting that thought aside, Harry moved to open the envelope and pulled out the letter written on parchment — not paper, _parchment_. His ghoulish green eyes scanned down the words on the sheet twice before he blinked in disbelief. He read it one more time, slowly, just to reassure the fact that he was not mad and hallucinating.

 _ **Hogwarts School of Witchcraft and Wizardry**_

 _ **Headmaster: Albus Dumbledore**_

 _ **(Order of Merlin, First Class, Grand Sorc., Chf. Warlock, Supreme Mugwump, International Confed. Of Wizards)**_

 _ **Dear Mr. Potter,**_

 _ **We are pleased to inform you that you have a place at Hogwarts School of Witchcraft and Wizardry. Please find enclosed lost of all necessary nooks and equipment.**_

 _ **Term begins on the 1st of September. We await your owl by no later than the 31st of July.**_

 _ **Minerva McGonagall**_

 **Deputy Headmistress**

The rather unbelievable letter, assuming it wasn't a hoax, lead Harry to making a single conclusion he should have come to years ago. He was a wizard. His abilities were _magic_. He was a _wizard_. His power was magic. And his relatives had always known! They had known he would be because his parents were as well. That was why they labeled him as a freak. Why they seemed to hate and despise him for just being with them.

Harry's magic flared around him as his anger soared. What else had they kept from him? He looked up from the letter, eyes glowing though he was unaware of one of them glinting ruby for a split second. He wasn't surprised to see the pale face of his aunt twisted with fright and contempt. His power flooded the air again as he extended his will and his voice was monotonous as he voice his command.

" _Tell me everything you hid from me. About me, my parents, my magic — everything._ "


	3. Chapter 3

**Thanks for reading, following and favoring! I took a lot of my free time during summer classes to write that original childhood chapter... From here on out it's pretty much canon with a few changes. There was originally an entirely different (shorter) plot, but I decided to just go all out with a rewrite :P I need a recap for a later project. I already have the first year done, so I'll try to edit moderately fast, I still have classes.**

 **Oh, btw, this is Gen, I believe, as in no pairings. Because I can't write romance, whether it be hetero or other.**

 **Good luck.**

 **{TUoM}**

Harry's fingers slid over the scar on his forehead absentmindedly as he looked over the letter he'd received. It was not the acceptance letter to Hogwarts but a response to one he'd sent after learning all he could from his aunt about the Wizarding World. He was still angry she'd withheld so much. But it wasn't a surprise, she'd never willingly tell him he was a wizard who could use magic, same as his mother and father, and citizen to an entirely different world hidden from normal people. Nor would he have been told about the circumstances that lead to his arrival on the Dursleys' doorstep. He probably wouldn't have believed it; that his parents had been murdered by a madman while he survived with a mere scar, one that never seemed to heal.

Harry wasn't actually too angry about them hiding so much from him. The information would hardly make much sense to him when he wasn't even a part of that world and couldn't make use of it. No, he was more angry with the man who sent him to them. Albus Dumbledore. Headmaster of Hogwarts and holder to many an impressive sounding title. Harry usually didn't judge people before meeting them or by word of others, but he couldn't stop himself from resenting the man a bit for leaving him with the Dursleys, apparently for protection of some sort, and then not even checking in on him during the decade that passed. Did the man just forget about him after leaving him there?

The fact that he was able to leave him with his only living blood relatives who lived amidst the least magical place, as far as he could see, lead to more questions. Why was he the one to choose where he would live? He may have sounded important, but what did that have to do with him? Did he not have family in the Wizarding World? Was there no one who could help have supported him instead of scorning him there? Was Albus Dumbledore even aware of the life he left him to have?

Harry decided he would just have to find the answers himself when he finally went to that world. For the moment, he focused on the letter the headmaster sent back. After looking at the list of books and equipment needed for Hogwarts on a second sheet of parchment in his acceptance letter, he wrote the required answer and sent it by owl – there was an owl outside that delivered the letter, so he gave the envelope to it when his aunt informed him that was how "freaks" communicated. His letter, written in his simple cursive he'd finally decided to learn at nine, informed of his attendance as well as a short questioning of how he would purchase his supplies and where.

The response from Albus Dumbledore included a short message of his aunt knowing where he was to go and a key that, apparently, the key to his vault at a bank called "Gringotts" where money his parents left behind for him lay, and a train ticket. This made Harry wonder, in a moment of cynicism, how the man had the key to his vault, but then he remembered it was the man who'd been there after his parents had been killed. He probably had other things left behind by them too.

Harry shook his head of thoughts becoming increasingly resentful and cynic and focused on what he'd do next. Due to certain precautions of the Wizarding World, he would not be able to get a wand until he was eleven, so he decide to wait until his birthday to go to shopping. He could conclude from what he'd heard from wizards and witches that wands were used as tools and conduits of their magic. He figured this was to focus their power, since he honestly doubted all people dedicated twelve hours a day for seven years of their life to gain complete control of it and their emotions. He wondered if using a wand would be easier than what he had gotten used to. He'd just have to wait for the day he got it to learn.

The next week passed with very little contact with the Dursleys. They went out nearly everyday to have a good time and get away from him, leaving him alone. Harry didn't mind. It was a relief to not have to constantly temper the constant presence of nausea, as dulled as it was now, with them near. He relaxed but didn't really change his normal routine of cooking, for himself now, tending to the garden, and reading while simultaneously practicing with his abilities. His control had really improved to the point he could split his attention and succeed almost eight out of ten tries. Next he would move on to two abilities, splitting his attention three ways, but that would have to wait until after he went shopping.

July thirty-first arrived with little celebration. He said little except to the surprising act of Dudley getting him a present, just a small novel about a boy genius from Ireland who discovered another world beneath him, but it made him like his cousin just a bit more. That was the only exchange of well-meaning intention as the following exchanges between him and the elder Dursleys were little more than barely veiled insults and unhidden glares of hatred. He did his best to ignore them but there was only so much he could take before going back on his word to not abuse his powers over them. He was only eleven after all.

Thankfully, before he fell to temptation, his aunt shrieked at him to get in the car and drove him to London where she dropped him off at a small rundown pub she called the Leaky Cauldron. She drove away without even a word of advice of how it led to Diagon Alley. Harry stared at building for a moment then at the people rushing past without even glancing at the odd building. Their eyes seemed to slide over it and he had a feeling that it was hidden in some way from people without magic. So it was the right place, though he wondered how his aunt could have dropped him off exactly in front of it.

He shrugged and went in after pondering for less than a moment. What did it matter, he was finally entering the Wizarding World. Excitement and nervousness bubbled in him as he opened the creaky door only to freeze as he paused while looking in. The pub was dark and pretty shabby, with strange inhabitants such as old women in a corner drinking already, a little man with a top hat at the bartender's counter, and other suspicious looking people. A strange silence went through the room before an old, wrinkled man missing an eye yelled at him, "Close the bloody door ah'ready! You're lettin' out the buzz!"

Raucous and throaty laughter shot through the room. Harry blinked blankly for a second before shutting the door behind him and mumbling, "Sorry." He strode into the room, looking around the gloomy room with slight apprehension to accompany his excitement as he headed for the bartender.

"Excuse me," he said politely, causing the old bartender cleaning a mug with a rag to look at him and smile.

"Hullo, lad. What can I do for you?" The man asked kindly.

Harry fidgeted for a moment, fumbling for what to say. "Uh,well, I heard this is where the entrance to Diagon Alley is. I need to go there for supplies."

The old bartender nodded. "Your first time here? I'm guessing you were raised by Muggles?" He didn't wait for Harry to answer. "You came just in time, a friend of mine is heading to the entrance now. If you just head back that way, you may catch him. He's a big guy, half-giant, you can't miss him."

"Thank you!" Harry said and hurried in the direction he pointed while internally wondering, _Half giant_? His long bangs flew off his forehead as he rushed to the back of the bar.

He was unaware that back at the counter the bartender was double-taking at the sight of the lightning bolt-shaped scar visible. Tom the bartender gaped for a moment before laughing to himself for not recognizing those distinguishing green eyes. "Dear Merlin, Harry Potter was in my bar."

Not many in the pub heard, but a certain man with a turban walking past him at that moment tripped. Shock eclipsed his face as he whispered, " _H-Harry P-P-Potter!"_

Harry broke into a light jog as he entered a small, brickwalled courtyard sparsely populated – not at all if you excluded the trashcans and weeds – and saw the back of a _huge_ man at least two and half meter tall standing at the end with an umbrella in hand. The half-giant, it could be no other, but he wondered how large a full-blooded giant was if this man was only half.

"Wait! I'm going into the alley too!" He called, seeing the man begin some sort of sequence of taps.

The huge man looked back at him with black eyes, his long, shaggy mane of black hair and beard coming into view. "Wha?"

Harry slowed to a stop beside the man, noticing warily how he towered over him, but shook away the nerves and straightened. "I'm going to the alley too. But I don't know the way in," he explained. "The bartender told me you'd be opening the entrance."

"Oh," the half-giant said. Then he smiled as kindly as the bartender had. "Well then, I s'ppose I should get to it, eh? Yeh just have to tap yer wand like _this_." The man tapped his umbrella against the brick wall. "Three up, two across, step back for a sec, lad."

Harry couldn't stop his eyes from widening the brick wall began to tremble where he touched, then a small hole appeared as the bricks began to move away in an almost methodical way until there was no longer a wall but an archway that opened to a walkway that twisted out of sight. "This is magic..." He muttered to himself.

"This yer first time seein' anythin' like it?" The half-giant suddenly asked and Harry nodded. "Yer a Muggleborn?"

"Muggleborn? What's that?" Harry asked.

"It means born from two Muggles, non-magic folk."

 _Muggles_ , Harry repeated in his mind before shaking his head. "No, both my parents were magical." He squinted for a second. "But I think my mother was a Muggleborn."

"Then 'ow haven't yeh been 'ere before?" The man asked curiously. "Yeh parents not like comin' down 'ere? I don' understand why, Diagon Alley is one of the best places in Wizarding London!"

Harry shook his head again and looked down the walkway. "No, I live with Muggles. My parents passed away when I was a baby. The people I Iive with never brought me here."

The man went silent for a second and Harry looked up to see the man squinting at him while cocking his head to side inquisitively. His expression must've been a bit creeped out since the half-giant suddenly stopped thinking and looked apologetic. "I'm sorry, I didn't mean to bring up painful matters." Harry just nodded but didn't say anything. "Well, we should be headin' in..."

Harry nodded again and he began to follow the large man down the walkway, jumping at the sound of the wall going back to the way it was behind him, before gasping as he first saw the actual alley.

"Welcome to Diagon Alley," the man said with a large grin at the boy's amazement.

Harry didn't know where to look. There were strange shops and people everywhere. The closest shop was one that sold cauldrons of all sizes and material types, but further away were shops with candy and treats, one with nice looking brooms with children crowded at the glass gawking and talking excitedly about them, a shop with lots of animals, normal and exotic ones, shops for telescopes and odd silver instruments, even a shop for owls. And the people walking past were all dressed in odd cloak like clothing, some with pointy hats, others carrying or followed by floating packages and bags. Then he saw a shop filled to the brim with books and he could feel his power move inside him with his excitement.

It was then that Harry realized that he didn't feel an ounce of the nausea he always felt when surrounded the people in Surrey. His eyes widened. He felt sick in the presence of non-magical people, _Muggles_. But why? And why did some of the presences here even feel, well, _pleasant_? He almost didn't care for the answer, he felt a surge of strange excitement and euphoria as, for the first time in his life, he didn't feel sick at all; a bit overwhelmed, but nowhere near _sick_. Already, Harry knew he would love the Wizarding World and he had hope that he could finally, _finally_ make friends.

Would've happened sooner if Dumbledore hadn't given him to the Dursleys.

Harry's mood soured slightly by the intruding thought but he immediately forgot as the man called his attention. "I'm sorry?"

"So where yeh headed? I know this pace like the back of me hand, I have some business, but I can help." The man offered, appearing a bit hopeful that he would let him assist him.

Harry smiled. "A place called Gringotts. I need to withdraw enough money from my vault to buy my books and equipment. It's no trouble, is it?"

A large grin once again overtook the man's face. "No trouble at all! I happen to be goin' there too. Just follow me." The man began to walk with long, heavy strides that Harry had to nearly jog to keep up with. When the man noticed, laughed sheepishly and scratched the back of his head. "Sorry 'bout that. Forgot yeh were short for a moment there."

Harry scowled but didn't voice his disagreement. He was well aware he was a bit small for his age, but it wasn't his fault his relatives didn't like to feed him as much as they did his cousin. It was partly his own fault though, he should've been able to sneak away extra rations for himself, but _no_ , he had to stick to his morals. No using his abilities when his life or safety wasn't in harm's way. Unfortunately, the Dursleys giving him just enough food to keep him sated almost every day to the point he didn't starve wasn't "harm's way". He was lucky to be of about average height...or a few centimeters short, but who was counting.

"Oh, I forgot to introduce meself," the man oblivious to his internal grumbling said, turning to him with the same grin Harry was coming to familiarize himself with as his most used expression. "The name's Rubeus Hagrid, Keeper of Grounds and Keys at Hogwarts. But yeh can just call me Hagrid."

Harry felt his eyes tighten for a moment before he forced them to relax. So the half-giant, Hagrid, worked at Hogwarts with _that_ man. He briefly wondered if the men knew each other, it wouldn't be odd for two people working in the same place to not know each other while knowing of each other. "It's nice to meet you," Harry said, smiling a bit. "I'm Harry. Harry Potter. So where is..." He drifted off when he saw Hagrid suddenly freeze and stared at him, gobsmacked. "Is something wrong?"

"Somethin' wrong?" Harry heard Hagrid repeat to himself. "Somethin' wrong he says." The half-giant suddenly laughed uproariously and shook his head. "I shoulda recognized yeh the moment I laid eyes on yeh. The last time I saw yeh, yer were just a baby."

Harry's brows rose in surprise. "You knew me as a baby? Did you know my parents?"

Hagrid laughed again. "I sure did. You look just like James and Lily. I knew 'em from when they attended Hogwarts."

James and Lily. Harry's eyes glowed at finally learning their names. He hadn't asked his aunt or uncle, and even if he did, they would have tagged some demeaning insult on the end. "What were they –" Harry cut himself off as he felt something that sent a shiver down his spine. He looked around for the source to realize it originated from a large, white building that towered over all the shops. At the entrance, burnished bronze doors, stood two curious creatures barbed in crimson and cold uniforms, alluding to there status as guards.

"Those are goblins," Hagrid informed him quietly as they began their ascent up the white stone steps of the building.

The creatures, now known to Harry as goblins, were a head shorter than him – if he had an ego, it would've been boosted by this, but he didn't have one – and had intelligent, sly looking faces and long digits. He felt the goblins were the source of the odd feeling – a feeling that he interpreted as _old_ and, in a way, _noble_ – so he did what his intuition bade him to; he bowed his head slightly in respect and was surprised when it was returned.

Harry was smiling almost proudly as he followed Hagrid, who didn't acknowledge the goblins in any way other than with wariness and unease, he noticed, into the building. He took a deep breath as he was assaulted by the same feeling as before, except this was many times stronger and seemed to come from not only the goblins inside but the building itself. He closed his eyes to adjust to the feeling but opened them again when he heard Hagrid stop. There was a second set of doors, this time silver, with words engraved on them.

 _Enter, stranger, but take heed_

 _Of what awaits the sin of greed,_

 _For those who take, but do not earn,_

 _Must pay most dearly in their turn._

 _So if you seek beneath our floors_

 _A treasure that was never yours,_

 _Thief, you have been warned, beware_

 _Of finding more than treasure there._

"Yeh'd have to be mad to try robbin' here," Hagrid mumbled and Harry regarded him curiously. "They have dragons. Teh...cause they're allowed to."

Harry's eyes widened. Dragons? They were real? And they used them as, what, _guard dogs_? To what extent did the goblins go to protect what was within their walls? What other mythological creatures existed that were there to fend off thieves? He felt another shiver, what could be down there to make thieves pay for the "sin of greed"?

He didn't even have time to guess as two goblins bowed, which he returned with a respectful nod, and they were in a vast marble hall. Harry estimated there being maybe a hundred goblins sitting on high stools behind a long counter doing various duties; some scribbling swiftly in ledgers, others weighing coins in brass scales, or even eying precious stones or gems through eyeglasses likely to insure authenticity. There were many doors, too many to count at a glance, leading out the hall, where more goblins were showing people in and out.

Hagrid headed for the counter and Harry followed sedately, taking his time to watch the working goblins with fascination. So Gringotts was a bank where goblins worked alone with no help from other...races? He couldn't assume that, though, so he kept in mind to watch for other workers. How exactly did this work though? Harry saw the lack of respect Hagrid had for the goblins just from his casual passing of them without acknowledgment for their own bow of respect, and he could see even more conscious disrespect from some the people in lines or being lead. He recognized the faint echo of how his relatives looked at him in their gazes, and it was rather irking. Anything that could be compared to his relatives was irking though.

Perhaps he should temper it to, say, dissapointment. His kind, apparently, weren't very different from Muggles. Not that he'd had expectations for them to be better or superior, but he had at least thought there'd be more differences than just magic. _And maybe I am getting ahead of myself_. He thought drily. _It hasn't even been an hour._

"Morning," he heard Hagrid say to a free goblin, so he snapped out of his thoughts. The goblin he'd approached stopped scribbling with his writing tool, a _quill_ of all things, and looked up. "We're here to take some money outta Mr. Harry Potter's safe."

The goblin looked briefly in Harry's direction. "You have his key, sir?"

Hagrid looked at Harry. "Do yeh?"

Harry pulled out the golden key he'd gotten and nodded silently.

The goblin stared at it intensely. "That seems to be in order."

"An' I also got a letter from Professor Dumbledore," Hagrid said, chest puffing out slightly as if it were something of the highest importance. "It's about you-know-what in vault seven hundred and thirteen."

The goblin read the letter the half-giant handed to him carefully while Harry looked at Hagrid with a subtle gaze that held resentment for the man he mentioned and incredulity for the term he used. "Very well," the goblin acquiesced and returned the letter. "I will have someone take you down to both vaults. Griphook!"

Griphook was another goblin – still no other races, perhaps they only trusted their own – who lead them toward one of the doors leading out the hall. Harry gazed in aw for a moment they entered a hall so long it couldn't fit when viewed from the outside of the building. He was curious but when he turned to ask questions it wasn't about the deceptively long hallway, but about the object that went by the ridiculous name of "you-know-what". He didn't receive an answer since it was apparently a very secret secret, by the words of Hagrid, on Hogwarts business that was giving to him, _entrusted_ to him by Dumbledore, and could cost his job of he told him. This made him scowl but he dropped it once Griphook opened another door for them to go through.

To his surprise, it lead to a narrow stone passageway let by flaming torches that sloped steeply. There were railway tracks on the floor and Harry learned what they were for when the goblin guide whistled and a cart came hurtling towards them. They climbed into the cart wordlessly with a bit of difficulty due to a certain half-giant, and then they were sent flying through a labyrinth like maze Harry couldn't quite recall since he was trying to catch sight of the supposed dragon Hagrid had mentioned. There was a burst of fire at one point but the cart was going too fast that he couldn't see what caused it. They plowed deeper and passed amazing sights such an underground lake where huge stalactites and stalagmites grew from the ceiling and floor and walls of strange glowing gems that created shapes like constellations.

Harry sighed in disappointment when the ride ended, earning a look of disbelief from a green Hagrid, who he worried a bit for as he got out of the cart wobbly and trembling. How hadn't he noticed during the ride? It wasn't hard to miss a giant green man trembling.

"Key," Griphook requested not lacking respect, but not kindly either.

Harry handed it to him and watched as the goblin unlocked the door, which caused quite a bit of green smoke to billow out. As it cleared, Harry couldn't stop his mouth from opening. Inside were smalls hills of gold, columns of silver, and large piles of little bronze coins.

"All yers, " Hagrid said with a grin, "left by yer mum and dad."

Harry could only stare in awe and disbelief. All of this was his? Who in the _bloody hell_ were his parents? He didn't know of the worth of the coinage in the Wizarding World, but his vault looked like that of a small fortune. It was a good thing the Dursleys wanted nothing to do with this world, or they woukd have unloaded the whole fortune on a life of luxury for themselves and left him in rags regardless.

"I gotta bag for yeh to use. Just wait a sec..." Hagrid said and began to go through his many pockets, pulling out odd things like dog biscuits and balls of lint.

Harry looked a bit leery and turned his gaze to Griphook, almost beseechingly. The goblin's face was mostly unreadable but he seemed to sigh in acquiescence. "For a small fee, we can give you a bottomless pouch that can hold up to a thousand Galleons." Harry blinked at the term. "The Galleons are gold. One Galleon is equaled to seventeen silver Sickles and twenty-nine of the bronze Knuts equal a single Sickle. Would you like the pouch, sir?"

Harry deliberated for a moment. He didn't know how much his books and supplies would cost him, and then the extra he was sure to buy, but a thousand seemed like plenty. But how much was a "small fee"? He could see the goblins were dedicated to their business from how strict they were in their handlings and employees, but that didn't prevent them from fooling unsuspecting people. "How much is it?"

The goblin smiled sharply and Harry heard Hagrid mumbled something about smiling goblins being "an omen of death worst than Grim or the foretelling of a blessing from Magic herself". Harry concluded from that that goblins rarely smiled outside of times when they were angered and carried out their wrath, or were pleased and rewarded whomever pleased them with great fortune. Or he was just reading way too much into the Grounds Keeper's words.

"The pouch costs a minor hundred Galleons." Griphook answered, still smiling. "Do you wish to purchase, Mr. Potter?"

Harry took less time to think. His vault contained a small fortune, a mere hundred was meaningless and would hardly dent it. But why was the goblin still smiling in such a way? Just because he noticed what might have been a scam? Was there more to this? "Are there any other features?"

The smile got sharper and he heard Hagrid make a disturbed sound. The goblin didn't even acknowledge it with offense. "For an extra fifty to get an automatic refill after using the entire initial amount, and for another hundred, you can connect it to your vault directly."

Harry tilted his head inquisitively. "Is there a fail-safe for that last feature? To make sure it is _me_ using it."

"Of course, Mr. Potter." The goblin replied. "The pouch will be connected to your magical signature and blood, allowing you alone to be able to retrieve funds directly from your vault. However, the initial amount already inside is unprotected but will not refill if stolen. For an additional twenty-five, there is feature where you'll be able to summon it from anywhere outside of Anti-Summoning Wards."

Harry evaluated the features, even the last one he didn't completely recognize, then mentally calculated the cost and nodded. "I will take it."

Griphook's smile shrunk but Harry could still see the cunning brightness in his eyes as he snapped his fingers. "It has been done."

An insignificant amount of Galleons disappeared from one of the golden hills and an ordinary, palm-sized black pouch with drawstrings appeared in the goblin's hand. By summoning? Harry accepted the pouch and followed a few directions that linked it to him by magic and blood.

When he felt the pouch heavy with the first thousand Galleons, he smiled at Griphook. "Thank you." He said sincerely, and bowed.

The goblin's brows rose slightly in a visible display of surprise that was soon followed by respect before his face blanked into polite monotony. "It is our pleasure to meet the needs of our customers." He returned.

The three then left the vault, and Hagrid, who had been silent through the last exchange spoke. "Vault seven hundred and thirteen now, please, and can we go more slowly?"

"One speed only," was Griphook's reply, and Hagrid grew green already.

They continued the trip, this time even deeper and the air grew colder as they flew past tight corners and over underground ravines. The ravines were so deep, Harry couldn't see the bottom when he leaned over to see, but then Hagrid would tug him back in with a groan. When they arrived at the vault, Harry realized it had no keyhole. He wondered how they'd get inside but then Griphook told them to back away and sent a swift and gentle stroke of one of his long digits down the door and it melted away.

"If anyone other than a goblin attempted that," Griphook began almost conversationally, "they'd be sucked in through the door and trapped inside."

Harry glanced at him curiously. "Then how often do you check to see if anyone's inside?"

Griphook adopted a rather nasty grin that scared Harry a little. "About once every ten years."

Harry stepped back subtly despite wanting to see what was inside the vault. He would try to never make an enemy of this goblin, or any of them if they were as vicious as Griphook. Even if he did kind of admire the fact he could strike fear in him so easily with just a grin. They'd be good to befriend though. Yes, he would most certainly have to get to that, sooner rather than later.

He looked into the vault from afar, not knowing what to expect, but it certainly wasn't the small, brown paper bundle sitting alone on the floot. Hagrid walked in and simply yanked it up and flicked it into his coat by his heart. He wondered what could be so valuable and small, but knew habits wouldn't answer. After all, it was a duty _entrusted_ to him by Dumbledore. He scowled again and continued to do so as they got back into the cart and left the bank.

Though Harry briefly wondered what Griphook's last parting meant. " _May your gold overflow and your enemies be slain, Mr. Potter_."

"Should get yer uniform now that yeh have the money," Hagrid advised, and nodded toward a shop called Madame Malkin's Robes for All Occasions. "Yeh probably can find yer way to the rest but do ya mind if I come back for a moment after I slip off for a pick-me-up at the Leaky Cauldron? I hate them Gringotts carts."

"That's fine," Harry said, agreeing since the half-giant did still look sick – oh, how he was familiar with that feeling – and he didn't dislike him enough for his relation to Dumbledore to wish ill of him. They separated and Harry walked into the shop. It had some of the first items on the list of requirements.

Madame Malkin was short and pugdy witch with a nice smile dressed all in a shade of purple. Harry had a feeling she liked the color, and while it wasn't an ugly color, _mauve_ , he wondered how she was the owner of a clothes' shop. "Hogwarts, dear?" She asked before he could speak. "I've seemed to have drawn the lot here – another young man is being fitted up right now, in fact."

In the back of the shop, a boy with a pale, angled face that Harry could trace aristocratic ancestry in stood on a footstool while another witch pinned up up his long robes. Madame Malkin stood Harry on a stool next to the boy and slipped a long robe up, beginning to do the same as the other witch, and was oblivious to Harry suddenly freezing as he got within the vicinity of the pale boy.

Harry knew intuitively that it was with the same sense he had that made him feel sickened when near his relatives that had been reacting since his entrance into the Wizarding World during encounters with those magical. He didn't know how or why, but he knew, and standing next to the pale boy caused his sense to react differently then it had all day. He could feel tingles, light and barely noticeable, trail down his spine, leaving a sensation of something not unlike fire in its wake. It gave him the impression of something delicately alluring but also fiery and passionate. He could honestly say he enjoyed the sensation, but he couldn't help tensing at not having an iota of an idea _what it was_ or _what it meant._

"Hello," the pale boy said, and Harry snapped his gaze to him. He took in the angled face still rounded with youth, skin coloured just the right shade of fair that agreed with the nearly platinum blond hair and silvery grey eyes. "Hogwarts, too?"

"Yes," Harry said simply after ending his quick observation. The once over had done nothing to help him figure out what he had just felt.

"My father's next door buying my books and Mother is up the street looking at wands," the boy said in an even, bored drawl that announced to his sense of superiority. "Then I'm going to drag them off to look at racing brooms. I don't see why first years can't have their own. I think I'll bully Father into getting me one and I'll smuggle it in somehow."

Harry was strongly reminded of Dudley in the boy's likely mimicry of his parents in his way. Bullying his father into getting what he wanted was said with no malcontent or much ambition, but Harry could see the cunning machinations running through the boy's mind behind those silvery grey orbs. Naive, juvenile manipulation in the making. He had the makings of a powerful man, but he was just a boy with childish cruelty etched into every part of him, Harry could already see. Perhaps he could fix that, since they'd be going to the same school for the next seven years.

"Have you gotten your broom?" The boy asked, looking at him enquiringly.

"No."

"Play Quidditch at all?"

Harry arched a brow. Was it normal to question a person you'd just met so casually? And what exactly was Quidditch? A game? He had the feeling he shouldn't ask and followed the feeling. "No."

" _I_ do. Father said it would be a crime if I'm not chosen to play for my house, and I must say, I agree." The boy already had an ego, Harry discovered rather easily. And his father catered to his as much as his aunt catered to Dudley's desire for fudge. To the point on gluttony. "Know what house you'll be in?"

"No," Harry said for the third time, feeling more annoyed by the second for his ignorance. He really needed to get those books and soon. It was irritating to be the one out of the loop and repeat one line like an insipid child.

"Well, no one really _knows_ until they get there, do they, but I know I'll be in Slytherin. _All_ our family have been." He stated almost arrogantly, chin raising a fraction. "I mean, imagine belonging in Hufflepuff. I think I'd resign from my place at Hogwarts and go to _Beauxbatons_ – my mother wanted me to go there since my family has French roots. It's not an all girl's school contrary to what people think. Wouldn't you resign?"

"Hnn." Harry made the sound blandly, his face shuttered into that of distant annoyance but still polite and genial. Ignorance was anything but bliss, he learned. And the blond boy had French roots, interesting. Did he know French? Perhaps he'd accept having conversations with him every once in a while to keep up with the skill.

"Ah, look, here comes my father," the boy said, eyes lighting a bit as he straightened his back. He clearly loved and adored his father, judging by the change in behaviour. It was probably why he mimicked him.

Harry turned to follow his gaze and immediately stiffened when the door to the shop opened as a man with a similar, yet twice as strong presence as the pale boy's strode in. He would've been able to tell the relation between the two even if the boy hadn't voiced it or feeling the similarity in their presence since the two bore almost the exact same features. The man was tall and elegant, baring a noble and insouciant air. He had long, platinum blond hair that flowed past his shoulders, a strong, nobly angled face, and piercing silver grey eyes. His form was clothed in fitted black trousers, white button up, and covered by an expensive, diaphanous black robe. In his right hand was a cane with the head of a snake that felt a bit strange to Harry.

"Draco," the man greeted in the same drawl the boy had, though his was more cultured and mature. It suited the almost lazy refinement in his movements but contrasted sharply with his hawk-like gaze. "I have collected all your books and a few extra I'd like you to read." The boy frowned slightly and the man narrowed his eyes minutely, the frown vanished into indifference. "I hope you approve of what I selected and finish it all by the winter holidays."

"Of course, father. Anything you choose is bound to be an enlightening read."

The man nodded, approval visible in his eyes. Then the man looked towards Harry and raised a brow in a way that believably suggested he'd only just noticed his presence. "I see you have made a new...friend."

The boy, Draco, looked at Harry and his eyes twitched, as if he was fighting to not squint, before he shrugged gracefully. Or tried to, he stopped halfway when his father gave him an unimpressed look. "We've only just met. Whether or not we'll be friends is only a matter of time."

The approval returned and Harry had to agree. It was a successfully neutral statement that said despite knowing him shortly, he was open to becoming friendly in time, though there was also a chance they would not, but it would not be due to a first impression. Skillful, for a child.

The man's gaze swept over Harry briefly, similarly to how Harry had looked over Draco. "Indeed. Then, in time, I look forward to the possibility of welcoming a new guest to the manor."

Harry didn't know how to respond and merely inclined his head in acknowledgement. "Likewise," he stated, the corner of his lips twitching up a bit. He might actually take them up on their offer, if only to find out why their presences felt so intense compared to others. And possibly to make new friends.

Those hawk-like silver grey eyes sharpened for an instant but, thankfully, there was an interruption. Harry really didn't know what to make of this situation; he felt like he was constantly missing something and it was going to be more than just a minor irritation if it continued.

"That's you all done, my dear," Madame Malkin said, patting his robe gently. He thanked her with a smile as he stepped off the stool. "You're welcome! But please come back next time, preferably when you put on a few pounds. You are far too small for your age. What have your parents been feeding you? Owl treats?"

Harry shifted uncomfortably and laughed airily. "I wish they could feed me owl treats! But they died years ago, so..." He almost thought he shouldn't have played that particular card when pity and guilt slid on the woman's face. "You don't have to apologize, I'm over it. Thanks for the service." He turned away with his things after paying and moved to pass the blond father and son. He recognized the analytical glint in the elder's eyes but smiled as if he hadn't noticed. "It was nice to you meet your acquaintances."

"Likewise," the man drawled.

Draco nodded and smirked a little since his father wasn't watching him. "It was nice meeting you too. My name is Draco Malfoy. What did you say yours was?"

Harry glanced back, and in a moment of mischievousness, he smirked back, though not as haughtily. "I didn't. Perhaps I'll tell you on the train." He watched the boy's face redden as he recognized he was slighted. The only reason why he wasn't coming after him was the restraining hand of his half-amused, half-disapproving father. He decided to think about the consequences of his actions later and left the shop, looking for Hagrid.

He found the man not too long after carrying an ice cream and a cage with the most beautiful, snowy white owl he'd ever seen. "Happy Birthday!" He said in greeting. "I thought I'd get you something before I left to finish my business."

Harry beamed as he accepted the cold treat and the beautiful owl. He'd never had ice cream before but he soon found out it was delicious, if a tad overwhelming in sweetness. The owl, now she was the best gift he'd ever received on his entire life, third to the magic and life he considered as gifts from his parents. He ate the ice cream patiently as he stroked the head of the white, golden-eyed avian. It was unfortunate that less than five minutes later, Hagrid was saying goodbye.

"You really have to go," Harry couldn't help questioning. He still didn't know his way around Hough he now had a general idea of where to get books and a wand from his...enlightening conversation with Draco Malfoy.

"Yeah, Dumbledore needs this here package immediately," Hagrid responded, unaware of the scowl he caused to grace Harry's lips. "I'll be seein' ya at Hogwarts though. "You'll come to meh there, won't you?"

Harry's scowl faded to a smile. "Of course. I'd love to."

"Then bye until then. Spend well, Harry. I know what a temptress money can be," the half-giant said, sighing almost wistfully. Harry eyed him strangely before laughing. "Be seein' yeh," Hagrid said again as he walked away through the crowds, sticking out like sore thumb before vanishing from view.

He sighed at the loss, having coming to like the man's presence somewhat during the little time they spent together. The half-giant was interesting and simple to get along with, in spite of his apparent closeness with Dumbledore. He scowled again just thinking the name, and tried to make himself forget it by scarfing down ice cream. It succeeded as he was hit by a brain freeze. He journeyed on, though, until he finished it. He smiled at his owl, who tilted her head curiously at her owner's behaviour, before getting up and gathering his purchases and headed for the nearest shop.

There, he bought parchment and quills. He was satisfied by his find of a bottle of ink that would change colors as he wrote. It would make doing work entertaining because he often got bored. Though he wasn't entirely sure if the novelty would last long. He shrugged and got in anyway and moved on to the next shop. _This_ one he was almost aching with restrained excitement since entering the alley.

Flourish and Blotts, a shop where the shelves were stacked up to he ceiling with books from sizes as small as a children's books to tomes as large as cinder blocks, books covered in peculiar symbols that could be likened to hieroglyphics and some that were entirely blank. He had a feeling even his cousin, who hated reading, would find himself curious to search through these shelves. For Harry, an avid reader and practically a bibliophile, just standing there in their presence was pure _madness_. He just wanted to go wild and choose anything amd everything, over all the subject's of the mysterious and exotic Wizarding World, but he was restricted by the books required for school. He had to find them first before going wild, and even then, he'd still have to budget himself for other supplies.

With difficulty, Harry forced himself to get the eight books required for the curious but easily surmised subjects of Transfiguration, History – nothing to surmise from that, just pure, boring , _magical_ , history – Charms, Herbology, Potions, Defense Against the Dark Arts, and two additional books on standard spells and creatures of the magical world.

As soon as he had found them, Harry launched into a search of books on the development of the Magical World, innovations and great wizards throughout time. The holidays and traditions of the Wizarding World. The many creatures, common and the rarest in all of Europe and other countries. He also found interesting books on the difference between Light and Dark magic, since he had gotten books of spells, curses and enchantments that were arguably both. Then there were books on the sports of Wizards – he was right! Quidditch was a sport! – which lead to him getting books on the modes of transportation when he learned the sport was played on a broom. He even found some old books on obscure magics. He was greatly anticipating his reading over the next month before going to Hogwarts.

When he bought his books, which came to an surprising total of twenty-seven, he spent only around twenty Galleons. The gold coin was worth quite a bit, he realized, far more than a pound. He considered going around once more, but decided he could do it again once he ran out of books to read. After receiving a bottomless bag, charmed to be lightweight by the accommodating shop owner, he left happily to the shop he'd seen earlier and purchased an appropriate cauldron. There, he also got a nice set of scales for weighting potion ingredients and a collapsible telescope.

Next was the apothecary, which was almost as fascinating as the book shop, if a bit off putting for its disturbing scent. There were barrels of strange, slimy substances on the floor, jars of herbs and plants dried for extended use, unidentifiable and almost indistinguishable powders lining shelves on the walls, bundles and hanging fixtures of parts of many kinds of animals and creatures. He examined the unorthodox ingredients – there were _unicorn horns_! – before going to the counter and asking for a potion kit. He almost took the basic potion kit with commonly used ingredients for first years, but after checking for suspicious smelling substances of worrying colors, he chose a slightly more expensive kit with better ingredients and tools.

After leaving satisfied, he searched for his last two requirements on his list. They were relatively close, he supposed, and went to the lesser one. He purchased a nice trunk that held all his purchases with its much larger interior than suggested size and charmed lightweight too. He seriously considered learning these two spells and hoped they were in at least one of his books. Wasn't there one called _Spells for the Home and Convenience_ , or something of equal unimaginative value in titling?

His thoughts on the matter were swept under the rug as he found himself in front of Ollivanders, the shop where he'd get his wand. He felt his nerves, which had disappeared who knows when, as he stood in front of the shop that had a singularly unique presence that stood out from other shops. Singularly was an outrageously erroneous description as it presence was actually a culmination of many presences – _fiery and passionate, cold and frozen, empty and dissonant, wild and dark, vibrant and pure, overwhelming and harmonizing_ – that only this one place had. It racked his frame with its powerful resonance, but he steeled himself. He needed a wand.

After building as much tolerance as he could in a few seconds to arm himself against the bombarding symphony he knew was coming, Harry stepped into the small shop. He held his breath and closed his head at the almost painful onslaught of presences curling and mixing into a blitz of painful and pleasing presence. Then he suddenly felt a small pressure on his forehead and the onslaught was dulled to the point that it seemed as if it were all stuffed within a muted box. But how had it happened?

"That must have been painful, Mr. Potter," a soft voice said behind him and he almost jumped. Almost, but he managed to change it into a spin to see the person who spoke. He caught sight of an old man with wide, place eyes that reminded him of moons in the gloom of the shop. "You'll have to learn Occlumency to shield your mind from the ambient magic if you don't want to be overwhelmed again."

Harry blinked blankly. Occlumency? Ambient magic? Shielding his mind? What was this old man talking about? Wasn't he a wand maker and seller? But he was aware of his ability? The question was, if Harry accepted that the man did know, was if he was correct and if he could trust this man's advice?

The old man watched him closely. "Impressive mind, you have," the man praised with a smile. "You remind me of your mother who was almost a Raven instead of a Lion. Her wand, ah, ten and a quarter inches long, swishy, made of willow, and perfect for charms. She had that same intelligent mind with a cunning more along the lines of a Snake."

"I'm sorry?" Harry said blankly.

"I see a bit of your father's obstinacy and mischievousness as well," the man went on, stroking his chin as he observed him intensely. "He favored a mahogany wand, eleven inches, pliable, excellent at Transfiguration. Hmm, but there is something else...in the eyes. They remind me of a certain curse of...death..." The man's eyes suddenly widened before the man calmed and a wistful grin curled his lips. "Come boy, let's find your wand, or rather, let it find you."

Harry couldn't protest as the man shuffled away, deeper into the shop where the wands were shoved haphazardly onto shelves. "You know about my power? Why I feel sick near Muggles and strangely near different wizards and witches? What is Occlumency and how could it prevent me from being overwhelmed? Is it like what you did to me before?"

"My, aren't you an inquisitive one," Ollivander said, amused. "I'll tell you all I can if you be a good boy and find your wand."

Harry scowled but nodded. "Fine."

The next few dozen minutes were spent finding the wand that "chose him". After Ollivander informed him that Ollivander wands were made with three cores predominantly — unicorn hairs, phoenix tail feathers, and the heartstrings of dragons — and no two wands were the same. Only one person got the optimal response from their magic with a wand, with no other could it be matched. After telling him this, Harry learned he was a "tricky customer" after trying countless wands, none resulting in a good response whatsoever, some no response at all, yet Ollivander seemed happy, ecstatic even, by the lack of proper response.

Directly after he labeled him that, he got a creepy, pondering look as he said, "Hmm, I wonder, now...yes, why not?" Harry was seriously considering just leaving when the man began to laugh under his breath with some kind of morbid humor. "An unusual combination, holly and phoenix feather, eleven inches, nice and supple. Here, try it."

Harry stared at the wand apprehensively before taking it. His eyes widen when warmth flooded his hand and he felt the muted sensation of fiery passion and freedom. Impulsively, he raised the wand a few inches and flicked it through the air, causing a stream of red and golden sparks to shoot from its end. He was so awed, he didn't see the black box buried under a pile suddenly shoot out towards him.

That inattention cost him his pride.

Harry choked out an awkward sound as an object struck dead center at the back of his head, _hard_. His neck cracked at its sudden change of position and he actually _shrieked_ at the sharp pain it sent through his body. He let loose a stream of curses as he could barely stand, only upright due to the shelves he leaned on.

 _What the_ bloody hell _was that! Did it hit a bloody nerve?!_ He thought furiously, rubbing the tender spot on the back of his head. Then he noticed there was only silence, not the laughter he would've expected from the wand seller. He dragged his eyes up slowly, apprehension returning, to the old man with eyes like moons. He flinched when he saw the utterly solemn, place face of the man. Then he noticed there was a black box for a wand in his hands.

"Is...Is that what hit me?" Harry questioned uncertainly and warily.

Ollivander didn't answer. The air almost seemed to chill in the silence that passed. "Just like no two people can harness the same wand as their optimal conduit, no two wands can choose the same person to be their optimal conductor." Ollivander said quietly. "Yet when you located your first wand, a second sought you."

Harry didn't know how to feel about that. He'd done something abnormal again? "What does that mean?"

Ollivander didn't answer again and instead he practically shoved the black box in his face. "Try it."

It wasn't a request, but an order. And Harry knew he couldn't defy it, so he reached out with his free hand to open the box and swallowed as he saw the midnight black wand inside. He felt his nerves returning with a vengeance and knew he'd have to act quickly before they prevented him from acting at all. He reached his left hand into the box and picked up the wand. He shivered as cold shot through his hand and he flicked it similarly to the holly wand, only in a short arc away from himself. A shower of black and white and maybe grey sparks filled the air and Harry shivered once more as he felt a cold, shadowing presence, veiling over all. Almost the exact opposite of the wand in his right hand.

"Curious..."

His ghoulish, bright verdant eyes snapped up at Ollivander's voice. To his surprise, the man was no longer solemn, serious, but not ominously so. "What's curious," he enquired.

Ollivander fixed him with an intense pale stare that unsettled him but he would stand his ground. "I have been a wand maker and seller for many a lifetime, Mr. Potter. Despite that, I know of every wand I have ever sold. Every single one, and every single component." He stated. "It just so happens that the phoenix who gave a tail feather for that wand in your right hand gave another, just one other. It is very curious indeed that this wand is destined you when its brother," he reached out and touched the the lightning shaped cicatrix on Harry's forehead, "yes, when it's brother gave you this scar."

Harry's eyes widened. His wand was brothers to _his_ wand.

"Yes, thirteen and a half inches, yew. Curious indeed how such similar wands chose such similar boys..." He murmured. "Please rememeber Mr. Potter, the wand chose _you_ , not you it. And I believe it, as well as myself, expects great things from you. After all, it's brother, held by He-Who-Must-Not-Be-Named, expected the same. And he did, You-Know-Who did great things, _terrible_ , yes, but _great_ things."

Harry's eyes narrowed. He was similar to the madman who killed his parents? Didn't that allude that he could also turn out just as terrible? A shiver of apprehension went through him and he unconsciously gripped both wands, leading to his remembrance that there was a second one. "And what of the other one?"

"I didn't make it." Ollivander said simply, expression going pensive. "It was a, say, _gift_ from a visitor from when I was little more than lad, just starting the business."

Harry blinked and looked at the old yet seemingly ageless man. How long ago was that? He was going to ask, but he saw Ollivander's face shutter into a closed off mask of blankness. It frightened him a little honestly. He had no choice but to let go of the matter of the black wand's origin, but he would not go without leaning of what his strange ability was.

"What is my ability?" Harry asked bluntly. It drew out a surprised laugh from the wand maker and despite not liking being laughed at, he had far more appreciation for it than the blank mask.

After calming, Ollivander sighed and met his gaze. "There is no name for the power you hold but it is far more common than you would think." He said and Harry straightened as he listened attentively. "Every person has it to a degree, but it is especially prominent in those favored by... Magic, ordinarily. They are the great wizards of their eras, or the harbingers of calamity. They are the leaders and rulers, or they are tyrants and conquerors. They are those who are able to balance on the delicate precipice that is "Light" and "Dark", "good" and "evil", and may choose to bring harmony and peace, or ruin all with dissonance and chaos."

Harry was distantly reminded of the books he read that always featured a great battle between the good and the evil. Both sides always claimed they were right, claimed they were the existence that would prove themselves as dominant, as the chosen. He never quite understood them. He could never deicide which side was right or even if there was a right side. All he could see was senseless conflict.

"All of them had the choice to become either, and all chose eventually, no matter how hard they fought," Ollivander continued. "I wonder if this is a sign of a new conflict? For four to be born and live within the same time frame with the ability to sense the magic origins of beings."

Harry's eyes glowed. What he felt was magical origins? But what had that to do with being on the border between Light and Dark?

"You may not understand it now, but you will one day, Mr. Potter," Ollivander said. "When you accept your birthright and the hand of the one that favors you."

Harry blinked in confusion at the enigmatic response. He would have questioned the man further hadn't he been interrupted once again.

"Now, the holly wand is seven Galleons, consider the second a gift," Ollivander declared and sat on a stool behind his counter at the shop front. "I'll be throwing in two holsters – one for your wrist, the other for your leg — for five more; they adjust as you grow. So what say you, deal?" The man asked, giving wide grin.

Harry stared at the man as if he were mad – did he have a bipolar disorder? – before sighing and taking out the amount t needed and got the holsters. As he put one holster on his wrist, this to hold the holly wand, and the other on his calf, the man spoke one last time.

"And don't forget about Occlumency. It's a the art of shielding ones mind to intrusions, such as Legilimency, it's counterpart that encompasses going into another's mind." He said. "Now, off you go. Bye, Mr. Potter! Don't be afraid of shadows, especially your own."

Harry squinted at him before gathering his trunk and owl, then headed for the door. There was one last tidbit that using a wand outside of school wasn't allowed from underage wizards, and it soured his already irritated and weary mood. He'd been grated all day by the repetitive mentioned of Dumbledore, then was alerted to his stunning amount of ignorance of his native world, and _then_ he was subjected to the second mixed with a good dose of euphemisms and enigmatic wordplay.

Why was his life made so unnecessarily difficult?

He decided he didn't even want to know as he left Diagon Alley and caught the train back to Surrey. He chose a book to read on the way back that spoke of the most recent events in Magical Britain in the past decade. He thought it would be as good a place as any to start learning about this exotic yet peculiar new world he was in, but he soon found out how wrong he was as he read the first story in the book proclaiming the event of the only person known to survive a killing curse cast by "You-Know-Who". Who did he expect? No one he knew. Who did he get? "The-Bloody-Boy-Who-Lived".

And Ollivander called him one of "Magic's favored"? He snorted at the very idea.


	4. Chapter 4

**Thank you for reading! Despite the many flaws, including my not-so-funny sense of humor in places, you're still here (maybe not reading this but here). This chapter is a bit shorter and just leading up to Hogwarts. Two warnings, 1) minor inconsistency (i am an amateur._.), 2) stretched observations (sorry 'bout that). It's not _that_ bad but...It may bother some people. **

**And just to reassure those wondering, this is Gen all the way. If I want a Het or Slash pairing, I'll just write another fic (not happening any time soon).**

 **Good luck.**

 **{TUoM}**

The morning of September first, Harry awoke to the sound of birds chirping. His eyes opened and adjusted to the light to see a bird on his window sill. He'd left it open the night before after stargazing, he realized. He stared at the bird chirping cheerfully for a few moments as it hopped on the window sill, closer into the room, until the weirdest thing he'd ever seen happen. His snowy white owl, his beautiful, majestic Hedwig, swooped in and in a vicious swipe of her long wing, sent the little bird flying out the window. As if she had done nothing, she returned to her perch beside Harry's bed and blinked, well, owlishly at him.

It reminded him bizarrely of a scene out of a book where the main character attacked a fellow comrade when they tried to approach their partner.

Needless to say, it was a peculiar sight to see first thing in the morning but he just shrugged and got dressed in his favorite clothes. A pair of light grey jeans, a long sleeved black shirt, topped by a white hooded vest. A casual and ordinary outfit – one he was proud to say he created with a collaboration of several abilities that made it nearly permanent – but that was what he was going for when he chose it the day before. An outfit subtly displaying his neutrality.

After he'd gotten back from his shopping in Diagon Alley, Harry had set right on reading, more skimming, through the majority of his books. He first went through his class required books and found what he'd be learning with a wand was similar to what he could do without one, though using a wand consisted of specific incantations and movements. He was a bit displeased when he didn't see anything on wandless magic, but was more or less satisfied when he learned of new ways to use his power and more fascinating magics in his extra books.

The extra books he chose, he realized once he got to them, were a treasure trove of magic he would have never imagined. To his surprise and pleasure, he found the abilities Occlumency and Legilimency briefly mentioned in one of his obscure magic tomes along with the basics of how to use them. The descriptions and directions were rather vague, but he was already attempting them and succeeding sporadically – he loved those rare moments when he felt no nausea at all when shielding his mind, but he was rather sickened when he attempted to look into his uncle's mind through eye contact. The man apparently censored quite a few of his insults and thoughts of him.

Other than the mind arts, Harry learned of the existence of an ancient magic said to have only a single scion of its arts at a time. It had something to do with shadows or darkness or some kind of veiling. It almost sounded like a Dark Art, but Harry cared little for it having such a label. It sounded amazing and he hoped to find an actual book to learn it with.

When Harry read the books on the difference between Light and Dark magic, he realized that the Magical World, or Magical Britain at least, was just as prejudiced as the Muggle one. People weren't discrimated by their race or ethnicity, but by their blood and the type of magic they utilized. It was something Harry came to despise as he could practically feel the prejudice both sides felt for the other in their writings.

 _The Dark is evil_ , the Light said _. The Light is weak_ , the Dark said. _Blood is the root of power,_ some of the Light and Dark said. _Creatures are inferior_ , both said, though not equally explicit. _Wizarding kind is the leader of the Magical World_ , both said.

"There is no such thing as good or evil, only magic and those too weak to seek it," _Voldemort_ – _flight of death_ , he translated – said.

Harry was surprised to find his ideals of no discrimination were capitalized in one line by a proclaimed mad Dark Lord with a penchant for killing Muggles and Muggleborns. For one to make such a statement, he sure was a hypocrite, for the latter at least. Harry had worried briefly over the fact he was agreeing with the man who killed his parents and caused him to live with the Dursleys – he also blamed Dumbledore, the one who lived to take him there, a bit more – and the fact he'd been told they were similar. But he moved past it after telling himself similar didn't mean the same and he was pretty sure he wouldn't turn into a psychotic Dark wizard – since he wanted to learn both types of magic – bent on annihilating the "impure".

Aside from his decision to learn _all_ kinds of magic, Harry learned that he was famous for something he didn't even remember. How could they celebrate a bloody one year old for surviving a Killing Curse? They thought he defeated the Dark Lord Voldemort, one of the strongest, darkest wizards _of the century_. Had they taken leave of their sanity when they thought that? Or perhaps it was from the desperation after years of bloody war? He though it was combination of both since they were delusional enough to actually still be fixated on him enough to write about the exact year he would be attending Hogwarts after vanishing off the globe for ten years.

It was nonsense and now he had to stay low because he did _not_ like attention. Years alone had made him crave friendship or companions, to an extent, but he still valued his solitude. Celebrities were never granted solitude. In fact, their fanatics did their best to learn every single facet of their lives.

Going to Hogwarts would be painful experience, he deduced sadly. Well, painful until they realized he was not the powerful wizard they thought him to be and just a normal child. Seven years should be long enough for them to realize that. He hoped.

When he was ready to leave, Harry left his room with his things and started to load it into his uncle's trunk. Dudley was starting his first day at the illustrious and accomplished Smelting Academy, so his uncle _kindly_ offered him a ride to Kings Cross station. There, he would catch a train from platform nine and three-quarters. Harry didn't know much about train stations, since he had never traveled by them, but he didn't think there was any such platform. It was probably hidden by magic, he supposed.

The ride there was silent, though he wondered what sort of snide remarks would have been made if he mentioned he was catching the train at a nonexistent platform. He grimaced just imagining the cruel laughter and nasty looks they'd give him when they just left him at the station. At least without telling them, he would be free of the humiliation of not knowing the way in. He was a smart boy, he'd figure it out. Once they reached the station, he bade Dudley goodbye with a smile and the elder Dursleys with a dismissive wave of his hand, which caused his progressively puce uncle to stomp on the gas immediately.

Harry was smiling with amusement until he stopped at the place between one platform nine and one platform ten. No platform nine and three-quarters in sight. He approached the brick wall and smiled when he felt some kind of sensation that could be described as translucency, or perhaps permeability? He held a hand to the wall, it was completely solid, but when he pressed forward, it went through. Smiling wider at the discovery he stepped back, pulling his trunk and Hedwig's cage on top with him, and then walked confidently into the wall, through to the other side where he met a sight that took his breath away for a few seconds.

A huge, scarlet steam engine was waiting next to the platform where a few people were saying their goodbyes or parting words. It wasn't packed though, since he made sure to arrive thirty minutes early. He watched the few people on the train and outside talking , the cats prowling around and owls hooting almost conversationally, the toad hopping randomly through legs onto the train – _Hogwarts Express_ – away from a boy was being scolded by an old lady. It was a curious sight, and he would have stayed to watch hadn't he noticed there was a sudden slew of people coming via different magical means, the wall he'd come through, common objects he figured were made into Portkeys, or a mean similar and maybe the same as his teleportation called Apparation. Instead of just standing in the way of the onslaught of the crowd, he boarded the train, choosing a compartment near the back.

After putting Hedwig inside and setting his trunk in place, he closed the door and sighed in relief. Despite being excited he was still being subjected to a large amount of presences. It was nowhere near as bad as in Ollivanders, but as facsinating as some of the presences were, it was tiring and he had yet to learn Occlumency to its fullest. He had gotten through the first stage of clearing his mind and sorting though his thoughts and emotions, but he couldn't do it unconsciously or form a completely impermeable shield. It was promising though, so in the silence of his compartment, he decided to go through the motions.

It took him nearly ten minutes to be free of the bombardment of sensations – _wild and frenzied, cold and voracious, warm and enveloping_ – before his shield was set in place, muting them to at least half that it was before. It was then that he was suddenly felt the sharp intrusion of an _aged, stagnant_ yet _franetic, open_ sensation in a twisted mixture. The mixture was contradictory and made him look around for its origin.

His gaze scanned the growing crowds outside and immediately land on a family of six fiery redheads. They were led by two mischievously smirking twins a few years older that reminded him of foxes. Though he couldn't hear them, he knew they were speaking in alternating manner from the look of it as well as the annoyed gazes they received from the woman he assumed was their mother and another boy who was glowering at them. There was also a little girl, but she had no luggage, so Harry moved on, knowing she wouldn't be attending, to the last boy trailing behind them. He seemed to walk stiffly and purposefully distant from the rest in a way that suggested he didn't want to be clumped together with them, but his hair was a clear sign that couldn't be changed.

An interesting dynamic. Harry watched them curiously as the mother spoke to them and behaved as some of the other mothers had while sending off the four children, until the boys boarded as the train's horn blew, signifying it was time for departure. The eldest boy separated from them immediately but the others waved to their tearful mother and little sister. Harry looked away then, feeling a bit intrusive and maybe a tad sad he couldn't do the same.

The train began to move and he closed his eyes, relaxing to the minute jostles of the smooth train ride, trying to calm the excitement starting to bubble in him again. They were on their way to Hogwarts. He wondered what its library would be like. He hoped it wasn't as prejudiced as people were just because it was in a learning environment. But there were no mentions of anything hinting the least bit of straying from Light or Neutral spells, so he didn't get them up high.

After a few minutes, he felt that strange contradicting presence, smaller than before so perhaps just one of the redheads, and the door to his compartment suddenly slid open. Harry opened his eyes to see the boy who appeared to be the youngest of the redheads on the train.

"Anyone sitting there?" The boy asked, pointing to the prfectly empty seat opposite him. "Everywhere else is full."

Harry stared at the boy for a few seconds, wondering if the boy had even considered the thought of knocking before entering, before shaking his head. The boy sat down and Harry noticed there was black mark on his nose before turning to look out the window at the the passing scenery. It was peaceful, despite the close proximity of the boy's presence – it held just a slight more _aged, stagnancy_ than _franetic, openness_ , he noted – before it came to an abrupt end.

Two duplicates of the same aura the opposite of boy's in front of him – _franetic, openness_ overshadowed the _aged, stagnancy_ – appeared at the door. The redheaded twins opened the door and popped there heads in. "Hey, Ron."

Harry looked at them from the corner of his eye when the newly dubbed Ron replied 'what' with a glower.

"Listen, we're going down to the middle of the train," said the twin on the right. "Lee Jordan's got a giant tarantula down there."

Harry grimaced, he hadn't grown to like arachnids, while Ron just mumbled, "Right."

The twins snickered at his display and, after giving Harry a curious glance, waved at their younger sibling with smirks. "See you later then. Introduce us if you make a new friend, or rather, your first."

"Goodbye!" Ron snapped at his brothers as they left, their laughter audible even when they closed the door. The redheaded boy huffed a breath and stared out the window, grumbling a bit, before turning to Harry. "Sorry 'bout that, the twins like to joke around," he said, laughing half-heartedly. "You know how brothers are like."

Harry didn't but he supposed he could compare it to Dudley's behaviour towards him. "I guess," he said, shrugging. There was beat of silence before Ron shifted uncomfortably. Harry figured the boy found such things disconcerting or awkward.

"I'm Ron, by the way, Ronald Weasley," the boy introduced with a crooked and nervous grin and held a hand up in greeting. "This is my first year, you?"

Harry looked at his hand, lips thinning due to what happened when he touched other people, but he didn't want to be rude so he took it. He struggled not to grimace at the intensification of the old, stagnancy, but he managed. He smile politely. "Harry," he began, but paused, remembering he was supposed to be _famous_ to most. This would just be a trial run then, he decided. "Harry Potter. First year as well."

He watched closely as the boy's eyes suddenly widened to the point he they were almost bulging and his jaw dropped. "Y-y-you're...!" He gasped for a minute, and Harry withdrew his hand. "Then you really have _that?"_

Harry's brows furrowed, more at the question than the reaction, which wasn't surprising. "That?" He echoed questioningly.

"The _scar..."_ Ron said and Harry blinked, then brushed his deliberately grown out bangs away from the cicatrix the shape of lightning. "And that's where You-Know-Who..."

Harry restrained a scowl and nodded. Why did people give a dead man such ridiculous names? He was _dead._ Did they think he would come back just by saying his name? Once again, he questioned the sanity of Magical Britain. "Yes, but I don't remember how I got it."

"At all?" The redheaded boy asked eagerly.

"Nothing," Harry said, frowning. Did the boy expect him to recall memories from when he was one? Unless he counted his vague memories of sibilant whispers and a bright green light the color of his eyes, but Harry didn't feel the need to tell him that.

"Oh," the boy mumbled, and leaned back in disappointment.

Harry was a little annoyed by that but it put it aside. "Is all of your family wizards?" He asked curiously.

"Er, most," Ron answered. "I think Mum's got a second cousin who's on accountant."

"So you must know a lot of magic already," Harry said, squinting his eyes a moment after repeating in his head what he'd just said. _That sounded...presumptuous_. He still wanted to know if wizard-raised children also knew wandless magic though.

Ron didn't answer, dodged it actually. "I heard you were raised by Muggles," he said, not too subtly. "What were they like?"

"Dreadful," Harry answered honestly, not commenting. "Though perhaps not all. I was unlucky to have relatives that were. I would have preferred three wizard brothers." As long as they weren't like Dudley or bigotted and prejudiced.

"Five," Ron said, suddenly looking rather pained.

Harry learned how Ron was the sixth son of the Weasley family to go to Hogwarts after five elder brothers who had great accomplishments. One being head boy, another captain of Quidditch, the current eldest in Hogwarts a perfect, and the twins who got impressive marks while still playing around a lot. Ron was, he deduced, depressed about the high expectations he had to live up to – expectations the awkward, apparently average boy couldn't even imagine reaching. And anything he did reach, would be meaningless since his elder brothers already had.

Harry agreed wholeheartedly with assessment, especially since the boy just spelled out his own future. If there ever was a self-fulfilling prophecy, that was it. He also recognized the signs of jealousy when he spoke of his brother's accomplishments and had a feeling that if they ever were to become friends – his intuition doubted it – he'd have to tone down his abilities to not be on the receiving end of the boy's envy.

"You never get anything new either, with five brothers," Ron continued bitterly. "I've got Bill's old robes, Charlie's old wand, and Percy's old rat." The boy reached inside his jacket and pulled out a fat, gray rat that was asleep. Harry "His name's Scabbers and he's useless, never awake. Percy got a new owl for becoming prefect, but we couldn't aff – I mean, I got Scabbers instead."

Harry watched as his ears went pink and he looked away. He could guess what the boy had meant to say and while he didn't care, he was a bit confused why the boy was embarrassed. He was no stranger to second hand clothing, but what was the issue if you could just mend it to where it feels and looks and practically _is_ brand new?

He sighed silently and thought of a way to cheer up the boy who had unfortunate circumstances akin to his own. "Until I got my letter from Hogwarts, I didn't know the Wizarding World even existed. I didn't know how my parents died, or how Voldemort – " Ron gasped, face horrified and impressed. "What?"

" _You said You-Know-Who's name_!"

Harry stared dully at the boy, unimpressed. So he was one of the countless many who thought it taboo say the name of a dead man. _Voldemort must be smiling smugly in his grave_. His name struck fear into the hearts of people even after death. Harry felt a grudging respect for the man's ability to leave a lasting impression. _I really must get over liking gestures that strike fear into people..._

Due to his lack of response, there was silence for the next half hour as they, as in Harry, watched the passing scenery of farmland and fields, and, as in Ron, fidgeted uncomfortably. This lasted, one-sidedly awkward, until there door slid open and a smiling, dimpled woman asked them if they wanted any treats. Harry wasn't particularly fond of sweets but got up since he was curious about the treats of Wizards. And maybe partially from the reaction Ron had; ears reddening and mumbling something about his mum making sandwiches. So he bought some of everything, which came to less than one Galleon at eleven silver Sickles and seven bronze Knuts. Harry found it fascinating that all he had to do was reach into his bottomless pouch and the exact amount came out. Griphook, the sly goblin, hadn't told him about that particular feature.

Harry sat down, trying the treats, eventually swapping one for one of Ron's sandwiches – which he enjoyed far more than most of the sweets. He shared them all, knowing there was no way he'd finish them all now, and came upon a few interesting ones. Chocolate Frogs, though not real frogs, hopped around and came with cards of famous wizards and witches. Harry had horrible luck, apparently, since his card was of the one and only Albus Dumbledore. The card stated a few facts about him, to which he took interest in three of, the rest was meaningless drabble. One, his defeat of a dark wizard named Grindelwald – his name sounded interesting – two, his discovery of the twelve uses of dragon blood – he researched the blood to _that_ extent? – and his work with a certain man by the name of Nicholas Flamel, who, if he remembered correctly, was a legendary alchemist who created the Elixir of Life, or better known, the Philosopher's Stone.

He grudgingly respected the man for his success in life, but he still resented him and was vaguely disturbed to see the man disappear and reappear in the picture. He would just have to throw the thing away later if he'd always come back and smile the way he had.

Deciding he had seen enough of the man, he subtly slipped it into Ron's pile of cards from the many Chocolate Frogs he opened and moved on to the next treat. Every Flavor Beans lived up to their name; Harry got beans that tasted of toast, coconut, chicken, strawberry, curry, dirt, black coffee, shrimp, and even cat hair. When he got bored of playing Russian Roulette with beans, he looked out the window again, watching the fields turn into woods, twisting river, and dark green hills.

There was a knock at the door, and before he could say anything, the door opened to reveal the boy he'd seen earlier at the platform with an old woman. He looked a bit tearful now. "Have you seen a toad, by chance?" They shook their heads. "Oh, Merlin, I've lost him! He keeps getting away," he wailed.

"He'll turn up," Harry said, placating, not at all liking how pitiful the boy looked and sounded. So helpless, and almost resigned. So familiar.

"Yes, possibly," the boy said, sounding miserable. "If you see him, tell me, would you?" He left with that same air of resignation that didn't seem to be going away any time soon.

"Don't know why he's so bothered," Ron said, frowning. "If I brought a toad, I know I'd lose him as quick as I could." Harry's eyes narrowed a bit at that. "Mind you, I brought Scabbers, so I can't really talk."

Harry looked down at the rat still sleeping in his lap and his eyes squinted when he felt something very vaguely. It wasn't enough to gain an idea or sensation of though, so he didn't know the source, but he certainly could assume since there was only one other living creature – excluding Hedwig – in the compartment. He let the matter sit though as Ron continued to speak.

"He might've died and you wouldn't notice the difference," the redhead said in disgust. "I tried to turn him yellow yesterday to make him more interesting, but the spell didn't work. I'll show you, look..." He rummaged through his bag and pulled out a battered-looking wand. Harry winced at the feel of it – _fierce, free, fervent,_ dying. "Unicorn hair's nearly poking out. Anyway..."

As he raise his wand, the door slid open again – _another person who doesn't know how to knock,_ Harry remarked internally – and the toadless boy was back, this time with a girl already dressed in her Hogwarts robes. _I should get dressed too_ , Harry decided distantly.

"Has anyone seen a toad? Neville's lost one," the girl said, and Harry had a hard time not voicing the sarcastic comments that came to mind. He diverted his thoughts by taking in her appearance; she had long, extremely curly brown hair and teeth she had yet to grow into. He could see she'd be quite pretty one day though. There was also a certain quality to her voice that spoke that she was confident, almost too confident, perhaps to compensate for other qualities like he'd read characters in book do.

"We've already told him we haven't seen it," Ron said, a bit testily, but the girl wasn't listening, her brown eyes were focused on his raised wand.

"Oh, are you doing magic? I'd like to see, then." She said, stepping in and Harry was immediately bombarded by her presence – _fresh, sharp, seeking, alive_ – and his eyes widened, but this action went unseen. She sat on the seat a distance away from Ron while Neville stayed outside the door.

Ron looked taken aback by the sudden demand. "Er, all right." He cleared his throat. " _Sunshine, daises, butter mellow, turn this stupid, fat rat yellow_." He waved his wand, but nothing happened.

Harry stared, unimpressed. He hadn't even felt Ron's magic move or shift. Regardless of it being an actual spell or not, it sure didn't sound like it, one would usually have to actually _tap into their magic_ to do something.

"Are you sure that's a real spell?" The girl asked skeptically. "Well, it's not a very good one. I've tried a few simple spells for practice and it's all worked for me. Nobody in my family's magical, so it was quite a surprise when I received my letter, but I was ever so pleased, of course, I mean, it's the very best school of witchcraft out there, I've heard. I've learned all the books by heart too, of course, I just hope it is enough. I'm Hermione Granger, by the way, who are you?"

Harry confirmed his previous assessment with that very fast autobiography. The girl was overcompensating – for being a Muggleborn, perhaps – and was a bit high-strung. She also had an eidetic memory – Harry ignored the very tiny stab of envy at that – and worked hard to prepare. He was bit incredulous that she memorised the entirety of their textbooks, but that was only because he thought anxiety could only take a person so far.

"I'm Ron Weasley," Ron muttered.

"Harry Potter."

"Are you really?" She asked curiously, eyes lighting. "I know all about you, I got a few extra books for background reading and you're in _Modern Magical History, The Rise and Fall of the Dark Arts_ , and _Great Wizard Events of the Twentieth Century._ "

"Do you now?" Harry remarked, acknowledging the fact she was smart enough to look for background info, but also another flaw; she actually believed what she read in books, maybe not everything, but certainly a good portion. "Don't believe everything you read." He murmured carefully, trying not to sound offensive.

She eyed him strangely. "Why?" Harry just shook his head and she frowned before moving on. "Do either of you know what house you'll be in? I've been asking around, and I hope I'm in Gryffindor, it sounds the best so far. I hear Dumbledore himself was in it, but I suppose Ravenclaw wouldn't be too bad...Anyway, we'd better go and look for Neville's toad. You two had better change, you know, I expect we'll be there soon."

Harry watched the two go, eyes narrowed. Dumbledore was in Gryffindor. Therefore, he would not. It was decided. He didn't like the apparent segregation of houses anyway, but wherever that man went, he would avoid.

"Whatever house I'm in, I hope she's not in it," Ron said rather rudely, and threw his wand back in his trunk. Harry winced again. "Stupid spell, George gave it to me, bet he knew it was a dud."

Harry stared at him dully and couldn't help the thought that crossed his mind. _Your incompetence is showing_. Instead he asked, "What houses are your brothers in?"

"Just Gryffindor," Ron said, depression settling around him again. "Mum and Dad were in it too. I don't know what they'll say if I'm not. I don't suppose Ravenclaw would be too bad, but imagine if they put me in Slytherin."

"That's the house Voldemort was said to be in, was it not?"

Ron flinched again. "Don't say his name!" He squeaked. Harry shrugged, unrepentant. The redhead frowned. "Yeah, he was in it." He flopped back in his seat, depressed once again.

Harry frowned, he disliked it when people didn't even try to solve their dilemmas. If he kept seeing Ron like this, he wouldn't like the boy at all. "So what did your oldest brothers do after they graduated?"

Ron perked up visibly. "Charlie's in Romania studying dragons, and Bill's in Africa doing work for Gringotts," he said. Harry's eyes widened. So they _did_ hire other races. "Did you hear about Gringotts? It's been all over the Daily Prophet, but I don't suppose you get that with Muggles. Someone tried to rob a high security vault."

Harry stared in disbelief. "Really? What happened to them?" What he meant was, how did they die? Or more like, how do they already know? They only check high security vaults once every few years, didn't they?

"Nothing, that's why it's such big news. They haven't been caught. My dad says it must've been a powerful Dark wizard to get 'round Gringotts, but they don't think they took anything, that's what's odd. 'Course, everyone gets scared in case You-Know-Who's behind it."

Harry stared at him as if he were mad. No, as if Magical Britain in its entirety was mad. They were the ones praising him for killing the man, and yet at evey odd, seemingly impossible event, they thought it was his second coming? Voldemort would, if he was as much as an egomaniac as he surmised from his reading on him, definitely be smug about that.

"What's your Quidditch team?" Ron suddenly changed the subject.

Harry looked at him dully. "I don't have one."

"What!" He gasped, looking dumbfounded. "Oh, you just wait, it's the best game in the world!"

The redhead began to explain all about the four balls and the positions of seven players, describing famous games he'd been to with his brothers and the broomstick he'd like to get if he had money. Harry was indulging the boy's overexcited state, he'd already read all about the sport, but was thankful when the compartment door slid open yet again, though he was seriously wondering if people no longer taught there children to knock and wait to allowed in.

Three boys entered this time and Harry recognized the one in the middle as Draco Malfoy as his presence flood the air, not at all dulled by the dull and almost fleeting presences of those behind him. Draco's silver grey eyes showed far brighter than before and his presence fluctuated, alluding to more emotion internally than the cool indifference visible.

"Is it true?" He asked, taking a step forward, eyes sharp. "They're saying Harry Potter is in this compartment all over the train. So it's you, isn't it?"

Harry's lip curled as he remembered the way he left the boy. "I am," he admitted with amusement. He looked past the blond for a moment and narrowed his eyes on the thick, heavyset boys standing on either of the pale boy's sides like bodyguards. Their presences were unappealing, though not nauseating like most Muggles. They felt a tiny bit like Mrs. Figg, peculiarly enough.

"This is Craig and Goyle," Draco said, catching his gaze. "Don't mind them, they're just there to...protect me." His face twisted at the end though Harry couldn't tell what entirely with. "And allow me to reintroduce myself. I am Draconus Lucius Malfoy, but most just call me Draco."

Harry was about to ask why the formal introduction in bewilderment - after all, from what he read in his book on etiquette, one did not give their name so freely, names had power to those who knew how to use it; Draco was from an old family, he _had_ to know that - when he heard Ron cough over what was obviously a snigger. He frowned at him, and it only grew when he saw Draco take offense.

"Think my family name funny, do you?" He drawled, and a vicious glint entered his eyes. "I've no need to ask who _you_ are. My father told me all the Weasleys have red hair, freckles, and more children than they can afford." His nose wrinkled disdainfully as his eyes turned away from the redhead dismissively to Harry. "You'll soon find that some wizarding families are much better company than others, Potter. You don't want to go making friends with the wrong sort, do you? I can help you there, given time."

Harry tilted his head as the boy extended his hand and looked between him and Ron. If he were judging by the appeal of presence alone, he most likely would have chosen Draco, but he wasn't going to choose friends so shallowly. Not when he didn't know if one's presence was even a veritable indicator. Nor did he want any help or outside influences. He had to make his own choices, he valued his solidarity and independence after so long.

He took Draco's hand, which caused the blond to smile victoriously and Ron to gape in betrayal. He ignored both and spoke with a small, unconscious lilt to his words. "While I do appreciate your offer, I believe I can make such judgments myself." Draco's eyes widened in surprise. "I don't make then idly, they take _time._ Understand?"

Draco blinked owlishly, clearly confused as he extricated his hand. After a few moments, something seemed to click in his head and his gaze narrowed. "Then I sincerely hope that time is kind to your judgements." He murmured in his well-mimicked drawl.

"As do I," Harry agreed. " _A tout à l'heure, Monsieur_ Malfoy."

The platinum-blond's blinked in surprise and he murmured his response in French before turning to leave, sliding the door shut behind him. Harry watched and felt his departure until he could no longer be seen or distinguished. He smiled slightly; he'd just found his French conversation buddy. All the better for the friendship that might or might not be some day.

 _"What_ the _bloody hell_ was _that?"_ Ron suddenly demanded. Harry looked at him blankly, feigning innocent confusion. "The Malfoys are a known family that associated with You-Know-Who! They were some of the first to come back to our side after his fall, claiming they were _bewitched,"_ he spat. "But my dad doesn't believe it. He says Malfoy's father doesn't need an excuse to go to the Dark side." He stopped as the door suddenly opened again and Hermione peered in curiously. "Can we help you with something?"

She didn't seem to appreciate the tone of his voice and snapped back, matter-of-fact, "You'd better hurry up and put your robes on, we're nearly there. The conductor said so when I asked."

"Thanks for the advice," Ron said smiling wide and falsely before it fell. "You can leave now."

Hermione's brow wrinkled. "Thanks, I was just waiting for your dismissal," she replied sarcastically. "And you have dirt on your nose, by the way, did you know?"

Ron glared at her back as she left before rubbing his nose furiously. Harry withheld his laughter and looked outside through the window. It had gotten dark. There were mountains and woods under the lovely purple sky. The train felt like it was stopping too. He cursed silently, he knew he should have changed earlier. But now was as good a time as any, so he and Ron pulled off their jackets, hooded vest in Harry's case, and slipped on their long robes. Ron's were a bit short, seeing as his sneakers were visible from the bottom, so with a sigh, Harry subtly tapped into his magic and slid a hand over the fabric. He feigned tripping over the hem of his robe so Ron was too distracted laughing as his own robe grew in length to just above the floor and improved in quality, not visibly enough to be seen at a moment's glance, but enough to be comfortable.

" _We will be reaching Hogwarts in five minutes. Please leave your luggage on the train, it will be taken to the school separately_." A voice echoed through the train just as they finished.

Harry took a deep breath and practiced his Occlumency exercise as he felt his excitement and nerves return. Ron, the poor boy, didn't have such a method to calm himself and placed under his freckles. His nerves also showed in the slight tremble of his hands as they gathered the rest of the sweets in their pockets before they joined the crowd of students in the corridor. The train slowed down to a stop and people rushed out onto the platform.

Harry shivered in the cold and tapped lightly into his magic to send a wave of warmth to cover his body – minor use of heat to warm his blood, very, _very_ carefully, lest he wanted all his bodily fluids to boil and evaporate. Then a lamp appeared, wobbling in the air, over the heads of students and Harry heard a familiar voice.

Hagrid's smiling face appeared over the crowd of heads. "I'm on, follow me, firs' years. Mind yer step! Firs' years follow me!"

Many stumbled and slipped on the steep, narrow path Hagrid lead them on, Harry not being one of them due to experience with running on such surfaces from a certain disbanded group of 'hunters'. There was only silence during the walk, aside from the sniffles of Neville, who had lost his toad again, if he had ever found it.

"Yeh'll get yer firs' sight o' Hogwarts in a sec," Hagrid called over his shoulder. "Jus' round this bend."

There was a chorus of "Oooh!" as the narrow path opened to the edge of a great black lake, dark due to it being a moonless night. Harry didn't look at the water long, though he did wonder what was in its great depth since he could feel whispers of presences, as he saw a vast castle perched atop a mountain on the other side of it, it's windows alight and many turrets and towers soaring high in the sky. It was amazing, and he could already feel a distant sensation reminiscent of that at Ollivanders. He swallowed at that and began to fortify his mental shields to as strong as he could.

"No more'n four to a boat!" Hagrid called, pointing to a small army of little boats sitting by the shore. Harry got in one immediately and closed his eyes to continue shielding, vaguely aware of Ron's stagnant presence, Hermione's fresh one, and another's earthy and ancient one. The last made him curious, it was a delightful sensation, but he focused on his Occlumency.

His focus didn't waver at Hagrid's yell of "Forward!" or at the sudden November of the boat, which was smooth as silk after the initial movement. As they moved closer to the colossal castle, Harry had to constantly build up his defenses as he felt stronger sensations, constantly add more layers, thicker and more impermeable, until they arrived at the shore. He used the last moment before getting out to bring up shields strong enough to just mute it all. No, even stronger than that in preparation for actually walking into the structure.

"Oi, you there! Is this yer toad?" Hagrid suddenly yelled and it's response caused his eyes to jolt open.

"Trevor!" Neville cried from his spot next to Hermione in his boat, climbing out hastily to take Trevor into his hands.

Harry's eyes widened. _He_ was the source of that ancient and earthy presence? _Well, I suppose I've learned a real life example of why not to judge a book by it's cover_. It wasn't that he'd imagined the boy with a _bad_ presence, he just didn't expect such a cultured and pleasant to the senses one. It was similar to the Malfoy's in its intensity, though in an entirely different way.

Harry was torn out of his thoughts as he felt the bombardment of presences again – _billowy and calm, creeping and predatorial, dark and territorial, bright and unfettered_ – a mix of ordinary and frightening. He needed to focus on his shield, improving it even now as they head up the stone steps and stopped at a huge, oak front door. He took a deep breath as Hagrid raised his large fist and knocked three times.

The door swung open and he froze at the powerful onslaught of hundreds, thousands, _millions,_ of presences coalesced and converged as they spread through the air. It was overwhelming.

And it was _exhilarating_.

Harry's eyes glowed brightly as the sensations passed him, overwhelmingly but welcoming at the same time. It was then he knew, even without his intuition, that he would love Hogwarts.


	5. Chapter 5

**Thanks for reading and waiting. No reason for delay except I realized how terrible it was and did not know how to fix it. Laziness and lack of innovation, a terrible combination as you will see. I wouldn't grudge anyone if they dropped this...but I'm easily hurt, so hold back the flames, my dear Guests, pretty please? Anyway, I apologise for any girly sounding parts (I'm working on removing that) and mundanity. This'll probably make you wish I'd stuck to the original idea of just writing the slow years in only one chapter :\ I know I do.**

 **Also, added a bit to the prologue. It was lazy and I deserve to name Sloth. Simply, I just made James and Lily a bit more...interesting. I even threw in my own quasi-original spell. Hope you like it~**

 **Prepare for regurgitation. Good luck.**

 **{TUoM}**

Once Harry thought he had had sufficiently shielded himself from the rushing of sensations and presences, leaving only a constant but dulled flow, he assessed the tall, black-haired witch dressed in emerald green robes that had opened the door. She had a stern face and he knew that she was a no-nonsense professor who took her job seriously and wasn't to be crossed, by any means. Her presence, though muted due to his shields, was fierce, versatile, and...feline? _Huh?_

"The firs' years, Professor McGonagall," Hagrid presented.

"Thank you, Hagrid. I will take them from here." She said, and pulled the door wide to show the view of the large entrance hall.

Walls lined by lit torches, like those at Gringotts, Harry noticed, a ceiling too high to see in its entirety, though perhaps that was because of magic, and a magnificent marble staircase that led to the upper floors greeted them. Harry's eyes flickered about to take in the ancient building as he followed Professor McGonagall along with the rest of the first years. Not long after, he could make out the dull sound of hundreds of voices chattering from a doorway, clearly where the rest of the school was. Instead of going there, the professor steered them into a small, empty chamber where they crowded in, far closer than Harry liked. People kept skimming their bare skin against his and giving him a concentrated dose of their presence; not all were pleasant.

"Welcome to Hogwarts," Professor McGonagall said, projecting her voice to reach them all. "The start-of-term banquet will begin shortly, but before you take your seats in the Great Hall, you will be sorted into your houses. The Sorting is a very important ceremony because, while you're here, your house will be something like a family within Hogwarts. You will have classes with your house, sleep in your house dormitory, and spend time in your house common room."

She paused, for them to take in her words, before starting again. She went into how there were four houses — Gryffindor, Hufflepuff, Ravenclaw, and Slytherin — and Harry was pleased to see she showed no prejudice to any of them, stating outstanding wizards and witches had come from all four. She also explained how they'd be awarded or deducted points from their house for their behaviour — encouragement for unity, Harry considered — and how at the end of the year, a the house with the most points would get the house cup, a "great honor". Harry didn't particularly care for the system other then the fact it supposedly pitted students against each other, judged by their personalities and traits at _eleven,_ to promote some type of house unity and family for the ten months they'd be there. A mode of keeping relative peace, he concluded.

After informing them of that, the professor told them to wait until they were ready for them and prepared, as the Sorting Ceremony would be in front of the school. When she left, Harry was unfortunately drawn into a conversation with a nerve trodden Ron who spoke of the painful test his brother told him about. He couldn't help wondering how he was so gullible when his brothers pranked him so often. Turning away from the boy, he saw that everyone was nervous and it showed, or hiding it rather well. The only reason his weren't visible and he could ignore them was because the basic level of his mental shields required the sorting of emotions. He thanked Ollivander mentally for telling him about Occlumency, he would have long since collapsed without it.

He was again thankful for it when ghosts appeared through one of the walls. About twenty white and translucent ghosts had flown above them, conversing amongst themselves until Professor McGonagall returned, dispersing them. She told them to get in a line and they were following her into the Great Hall.

Harry was amazed at the grand sight of the hall. There were thousands of candles floating in the air, set against a clearly magically prepared sky of stars, over four long tables where the rest of the students were seated. The tables, he saw, were stacked with glittering plates and goblets, but there was no food. So the serving wouldn't begin until after the Sorting. His gaze slid to the last table in the room, which lay perpendicular to the rest, at the top of the hall, where he saw the teachers sat. His eyes slid over each teacher curiously and stopped on the man in the center before snapping away, so he didn't drop his mask because a slip in control of his emotions.

Instead, he looked up again at the velvety, star spotted sky. Hermione Granger informed them it was bewitched but he hardly thought knowing such a fact mattered; it was quite obvious anyway. His attention shifted back down to Professor McGonagall, who had silently placed a stool in front of them. On top was an old wizard's pointed hat - _how cliche_ \- frayed and threadbare at the seams, dirty too, but Harry felt it was more than that. Despite the distance, he could sense that there was just something _ancient_ and _knowing_ about it.

He wondered what it had to do with the Sorting and was pleasantly surprised when a mouth ripped from it and it began to sing.

Harry's mind raced at the verses. So the hat would be sorting them, by looking into their heads? How? Harry could surmise that the hat sorted them by looking into their personality and traits, but he wondered was how the hat even got in their heads. Was it a magic like Legilimency? Did that mean his Occlumency would get in the way? He would just have to see.

Applause sprang from every table and Harry clapped along, assessing the words of the latter half of the song. The separation of houses really was segregated; insinuating that the traits most common to those of a house are the embodiment of every person within it. It in itself set up a self-fulfilling prophecy for each person, each child, that was sorted into a house. His brows furrowed. Why did the Founders create such a system? Couldn't someone be sorted into the wrong house by mistake?

"So we've just got to try on the hat!" Ron whispered, leaning in close enough for Harry to cringe. The redhead didn't notice though. "I'll kill Fred, he was going on about wrestling a troll."

Harry could only smile weakly. Ron really was gullible, wasn't he? It was honestly quite funny, but Harry found it more cringeworthy at the moment than amusement.

"When I call your name, you will put on the hat and sit on the stool to be sorted," Professor McGonagall said as she stepped forward holding a long roll of parchment. "Abbott, Hannah!"

A blushing girl with blonde pigtails and a faintly warm presence stepped forward nervous; a moment after the hat as on her head, it shouted, "HUFFLEPUFF!" The girl was then welcomed to her table with applause.

Harry watched the proceedings as "Bones, Susan" went to Hufflepuff. "Boot, Terry" to Ravenclaw. "Bulstrode, Millicent" to Slytherin — which Harry noticed was a mostly emotionless looking crowd. They seemed to be of "noble descent", superior to the other houses in composure, and they probably thought just that since the majority of them were from supposed Dark families. Harry wanted to use his sense to feel them, he was really curious if they would feel akin to purebloods like the Malfoys and Longbottom. But he couldn't remove his shield, alas, so he only watched the Sorting.

He barely took any notice to people, though he memorized the names of people in his year — just in case — except a few he already knew or was interested in. Hermione Granger was sent to Gryffindor, surprisingly, he'd thought she would be in Ravenclaw. Well, he supposed he shouldn't have assumed. He heard Ron groan, but that wasn't a surprise. Neville Longbottom also went to Gryffindor, though he fell on the way and when he got there, the hat took a few seconds longer than with those before him. Then Draco Malfoy strode up to the hat with a similar gait to his father, though his was more suited to his short height, confidently. He went to Slytherin, and had shot Harry a look when he sat down, which Harry ignored. He already said he'd make his own decisions, there was no point in him shooting him looks of any kind. There was a "Moon", "Nott", "Parkinson", two of "Patil", "Perks", then finally his own.

"Potter, Harry!"

Harry didn't appreciate the comments of " _Potter_ , did she say?" and _"The_ Harry Potter?" His thoughts turned a bit sarcastic at that, but he merely sighed as he walked sedately to the stool and sat calmly. He had expected the response to his "celebrity" status as the laughable _Boy-Who-Lived_. The last thing he saw before the hat was placed over his head was the expectant eyes of hundreds of children. He closed his eyes to the rushing sensation of _ancient, knowing,_ and _intrusive._

 _"Hmm,"_ a low, raspy voice said, in his mind. His brows twitched, he hadn't thought the hat to be sentient. Intrusive, indeed. And his shields were still up. Interesting. " _Difficult. Surprisingly so. You have one of the most impressive minds I've seen in seventy years, Mr. Potter_." The hat said. " _You are brave, though you've rarely needed to use it. You thirst for knowledge in a way that few can match. You'd be loyal to a fault to any who earned a place within your trust, though there are none so far. And you also have_ that _power_..."

Harry twitched. So the Sorting was a scanning of memories? Searching for the characteristics of the different houses to choose. How did that work? And how could the hat know of his ability? As in _know_ of his ability, when he had no idea what it was. It was a _hat,_ an enchanted one, but still a hat.

The hat snorted. " _There have been several before you with a similar power, Mr. Potter_ ," the hat informed. " _Three within this century, but that is neither here nor there. What house shall I put you in? Hmm..._ "

Harry twitched again at the lack of information and sighed silently. He didn't care what house he went to, as long as it wasn't _his._ Any other house was fair game, though he figured Ravenclaw or Slytherin would be best, though he didn't think himself ver cunning. He wouldn't mind Hufflepuff either, he rather liked the idea of a house with a defining trait of loyalty. _But_ _not_ _Gryffindor,_ not _Gryffindor_.

" _Not Gryffindor_?" The hat repeated with no little amusement, and Harry heard a raspy laugh echo through his mind. " _Why is that? Some before you begged for it, you know?_ " Harry cocked his head minutely in interest but the hat kept talking. " _Ah, I see. You resent ol' Albus Dumbledore, do you?_ "

There was a pause and Harry realized the hat wanted a response. _I don't think resent is the right word, but yes, I do,_ he answered, seeing no reason to lie. It was already in his head anyway, why bother?

" _Do you want revenge for what he did?_ "

Harry's eyes flashed open in surprise, but thankfully, the hat was big enough to cover his eyes. _Revenge? Of course not._ Despite... resenting Dumbledore quite a bit and blaming him for his life with the Dursleys, Harry felt revenge was a pointless action. He had read enough of stories, fiction or true, to know it only ended with the one living for revenge losing everything in their ambition. He also just didn't want to lose his mind for a man he wanted nothing to do with, it wasn't worth it.

" _Would you still think that way if I told you Albus Dumbledore sent you to your relatives would mistreat?_ " The hat asked. " _That he did it knowing you would be abused and scorned, even if not to the extent it was taken? And that he did it for the sake of a cause few are aware of. In the name of the_ Greater Good?"

He didn't know what to say to that, mostly because the hat sounded as if it _wanted_ him to aim for revenge, but focused on the hat's other words. It was only natural he felt a bit enraged that the man sent him knowingly to an abusive household, and it was only made worse by the fact he did it for a reason. The "Greater Good"? Did that translate to serving the needs of many over a few? Or committing cruel deeds now for the sake of the future? Harry didn't know if that was what it meant, but he didn't like the sound of it already. How could someone develope such a philosophy?

" _Why don't you find out?_ " The hat said, causing Harry to jump a bit. " _Albus Dumbledore has been an untouched and indisputable presence in Wizarding Britain for a very long time. Yet no one knows much else than common and fun facts about him. No one is close to him except a select few, and even they don't know much_."

 _Where are you going with this_ , Harry questioned warily.

" _Why don't you take the position that will allow you to crack the mystery that is Albus Dumbledore? You'll be able to pursue your interests and ambitions while also learning of the man you resent. Wouldn't you like to know why he did what he did to you and why his catchphrase is what it is_?"

 _I suppose_ , Harry murmured. But that would mean going to the one house he didn't want to go to. And, to be honest, Dumbledore wasn't the only reason why he didn't want to go there. For one, he'd heard of the famous Gryffindor recklessness and hotheadedness. He didn't think he'd fit into that particularly well. But he'd also heard of their great house loyalty. It redeemed them a bit, but...

The hat laughed again. " _Then it is decide_ d!"

 _Wait, what?_

"GRYFFINDOR!"

Harry's eyes widened beneath the hat. Had the hat just did what he thought it had? As the loudest cheer yet filled the room, he realized it had. He had just been put in the house that was basically his opposite in personality and was the previous house of the man he resented.

He cursed the hat in his head as he got up, setting the old thing down roughly on the stool in a fit of pettiness before walking to the Gryffindor table. He grimaced internally at the standing ovation and the boasts that were already starting. They were a boastful house, too, he recalled with distaste. He shook the hands of many smug to have the famed Harry Potter in their house -wonderouscharms shuddering at times under his shield - before finally being allowed to sit. There were less eyes then and he was free to glower at the hat - suppressing the urge to light it on fire; but who knew if people could track magic? - for a few seconds before glancing at the teachers' table.

The High Table was clearly in view from his seat. Hagrid gave him a thumbs up and Harry had to give him a weak smile. He honestly didn't dislike the man, though he now had a feeling, if the man's proud smile was anything to judge by, that he was a Gryffindor when he attended the school. His lips began to twist oddly at that so he looked away from the half-giant and was instantly attracted to the seat in the center. He recognized Albus Dumbledore from the Chocolate Frog card on the train and fought to not scowl. When he couldn't succeed, he looked further down the table to a curious looking man in a turban that seemed to twitch fearfully every few moments. He wasn't very interesting to look at, but Harry felt his intuition tell him something was off.

He was distracted, however, when "Weasley, Ronald" was called and he peered at the redheaded boy curiously. He was a nervous wreck, skin already a pallid pale green color. When the hat shouted Gryffindor, he clapped slowly, smiling slightly, while on the inside he was frowning a bit. He'd known the boy would be sorted into the Den of Lions, but he couldn't help feeling a bit...displeased as he collapsed on the seat next to him. It wasn't that he disliked the boy, he just didn't like him either. Now he had to be in close proximity of him for the next seven years.

 _That bloody hat_ , he cursed again, just as the last name was called, "Zabini, Blaise!" His attention shot to the boy with mocha brown skin, sharp cheekbones, and icy blue eyes. He perked up with curiosity at the unique grace the boy walked with, and tilted his head as he lowered his shields a bit to feel his presence. He struggled for a moment with all those around him before he attempted to focus on the boy, and surprisingly, it worked and the sensations around him dulled a small fraction. Ignoring that intriguing discovery for a moment, his verdant eyes glowed for a moment as he felt a slight pulse of the boy's presence flow over him — _cold_ , _dark_ and _sharp._ It was simple, but there seemed to be much more depth to it, almost like Draco Malfoy's despite the sheer difference. He watched the boy from the corner of his eye curiously as he was sorted into Slytherin and sat next to Draco. He glowered a bit when he saw that. _Bloody hat. Practically made me an enemy to those with the interesting presences._

His mood only worsened when Albus Dumbledore stood to give his speech, and after welcoming them, he proved he was mad by saying random words. Harry stared at the man, unimpressed, especially when he heard the Weasley prefect say the man was mad but also brilliant, until a feast appeared on the table before him. It was the most food he'd ever seen, and they all looked delicious. So he spent dinner trying as many foods as he could without going over his limit. He'd seen Dudley when he overate, and in short, it wasn't pretty.

After everyone had eaten, evidently, desserts appeared, but Harry refrained from trying any of them. They all looked sickeningly sweet, and he learned after the ice cream Hagrid had gotten him in Diagon Alley that sweets weren't his favorite. Though when he received looks from Ron beside him, he reluctantly reached for a treacle tart, which he found pleasant and got several more of. He was savoring the flavor of one when those around him began to talk about their home lives and family.

Harry didn't pay any attention until Neville spoke about how his great uncle kept putting him in dangerous positions when he showed no signs of magic when younger. He was shocked to hear his family had actually nearly drowned him and had dropped him out of a window. Apparently, the story had a good ending though when he survived the drop and his grandmother cried from happiness, but while some people laughed, his lip curled a bit in disgust. What would his grandmother have done if he hadn't had magic? It was like some twisted magical form of the Dursleys, how extreme they sounded.

He halted his thoughts there before they went too far and looked up towards the High Table. He caught sight of Hagrid drinking deeply from his goblet, Professor McGonagall conversing with Dumbledore, and the man in the strange turban speaking with another teacher with an aquiline nose, dark hair greasy from what he thought he could assume was potions — he read in one of his books that being around them did that to people who didn't take precautions; though it could just be bad hygiene — and pale skin made paler by his all black color scheme.

As if feeling his gaze, the pale man looked past the one with a turban and Harry felt a sharp, hot pain spark from the cicatrix on his forehead. It was so sudden, he almost missed the minute prod of something against his mind shields. His hand flew up to his scar as he hissed in pain. Suddenly, both sensations disappeared. He closed his eyes in relief before opening them when he felt a shoulder bump into his; he recognized it's aged, stagnancy.

"Wha's w'ong?" Ron asked, mouth full of some kind of chocolate treat.

Harry eyed the boy with a frown for a second before shaking his head. "Nothing," he said, earning a shrug from the redhead. He turned to the prefect Weasley, who was speaking about Transfiguration with Hermione. "Who's the teacher in the black robes?"

Percy Weasley looked for who he was asking about. "That's Professor Snape, the Potions teacher," the redhead said, voice level in a way that said he was attempting to be unbiased but a small amount of dislike leaked through. "He wants to be the Defense teacher though, that's the position of the one he's taking to, by the way, Professor Quirrell. He knows an awful lot about Dark Arts, Snape."

Harry almost rolled his eyes at the meaning behind the Weasley's words. So he was also prejudiced to the Dark, he deduced, just like Ron, to some extent. Inherently from being a "light family". How irritating. Though at least the prefect tried not to seem prejudiced. He sincerely hoped his entire house wasn't the same way. Them baring enmity to Slytherins, the supposed nest of Dark wizards and witches, wasn't helping his opinion of them. _Accursed hat_.

He glanced back at the Potions and Defense teacher once more, but nothing else happened. He'd keep an eye on them though, they seemed interesting.

His thoughts were cut short when Dumbledore — perhaps he should start referring to him as Professor? It would save him from having to think the man's name — gave a few more words after the dessert disappeared. He informed that the Forbidden Forest was off limits — which made Harry kind of want to go there — and gained a strange twinkle in his eyes when he mentioned this, looking down at the twin Weasleys. _Bias,_ Harry thought instantly, with a frown. It only grew as he heard magic wasn't allowed in the hallways. It was a magic school, for crying out loud! And then he mentioned Quidditch trials and something about house teams that went in one ear and went out the other.

The last message he gave was what really sparked his curiosity. The third-floor corridor on the right-hand side, quite a specific description, was apparently off limits to all if they "did not wish to die a very painful death". Harry looked at the man in disbelief. That statement was just begging for someone to do exactly that. Did he not know that saying that to children, anyone really, would cause them to do exactly what he told them not to?

After a few mutterings here and there, the professor announced they would do the school song. Harry was then scarred for life by the combination of terrible lyrics and a cacophony of tone deaf singing. He was close to bursting his own eardrums with magical pressure by the time it came to an end and they were finally released to go to their dorms. Harry was briefly amazed to see talking and moving paintings, but got over it when he remembered the Chocolate Frog cards on the train.

When he got to the room he'd be sleeping in for the next year, he was delighted to see four-poster beds with red, velvet curtains. While red wasn't his favorite color, he still liked it's deep color. And the bed! It was marvelously soft and he sunk into it as soon as he had his robe off and pajamas on.

If there was one thing he could enjoy while being in the Gryffindor house, it was the bed.

 **{TUoM}**

From the moment he left his dorm, whispers followed him. Harry appreciated this in no way and it showed, if not in his expression, then in the brisk pace he strode to his classes with. His pace prevented anyone from stopping to talk to him as well as the cut insistent stares he wished to snap were rude and unwanted short.

But he didn't. Instead, he focused on how to get to his classes. He left thirty minutes early for this and the stares were still innumerable and rather distracting - even more so than the strange presences in the building, and that's saying something. There was a total of a hundred and forty-two staircases of varying lengths, speeds, and troublesome steps - his favorite being the one that made the person stepping on it turn the opposite direction unwittingly; it worked nicely on some of those following him. There was magic suffused with every part of the castle he walked through, and not all of the same origin, which was distracting as well, and it made traversing the halls a journey.

When he finally found the classes, and was eventually joined by those who decided to arrive later, they themselves were something of a trial. They were just so _boring._ It was almost like back in primary school but he was trying not to kill his hope too much since he knew it was just the beginning of the year. They would get better. Well, some of them. History of Magic, he knew wouldn't, since it was taught by a ghost of frightening tediousness. All he droned on about was the Goblin Wars, featuring Emeric the Evil and Uric the Oddball, and it irritated him a bit. If he were a goblin, he'd be offended.

On the topic of goblins, Harry recalled his Charms teacher, Professor Flitwick, was half goblin, thus him having to stand on a stack of books to see over his desk. At one point, as he was calling the roll, the professor toppled over with a squeak while saying Harry's name and he noticed it had the effect of directing attention away from himself. He couldn't help smiling at the man, liking him instantly. He'd directed all his calassmate's focus to him, all their laughter, and Harry immediately saw him in a better light while the opposite could be said of his classmates. He still didn't like laughing at another, even if it wasn't with bad intent.

They didn't do much other than introductions and theory in Charms, the same went for Herbology with a witch named Professor Sprout. Transfiguration was a bit different. After giving a stern talking-to, she showed an impressive display of changing her desk into a pig and back, then immediately gave them an assignment of changing a matchstick into a needle after notes on theory. It was a simple matter for his transformation ability he learned since he was younger, but doing it with a wand was something else entirely. He used his holly wand predominantly and found that channeling magic through it was easier said than done. He did get it eventually, and was able to transfigure it, though only after overpowering it several times to where the matchstick actually splintered. By the end of class, only he succeeded and Hermione was close, so he carefully turned it back into a matchstick. He didn't really want to stand out.

Defense Against the Dark Arts came next with Professor Quirrell, whom turned out to be a somewhat inconvenient teacher. The room had reeked of garlic, apparently to ward off a vampire — Harry was fascinated to learn they existed along with many other mythical creatures — one who had "scared the talent out of him". Though Harry had noticed a few moments when the man suddenly stopped stuttering and said something intelligent. It was at these times he noticed brief flashes of a foreign sensation mixed within Professor Quirrell's usually plain and flaccid presence. Never long enough to identify, but enough that Harry knew it was happening. It made him even more curious about the seemingly ever so fearful man.

A class later during the first week was another that Harry considered having a decidedly inconvenient teacher, though not due to being culled by fear, but by an irrational amount of sheer _bias._ Harry thought it was a shame that such an impressive man - his presence, specifically - or at least that he _could_ have been hadn't he been prejudiced against all houses other than his own, especially Gryffindor. The teacher being the Head of Slytherin House hadn't aided in the matter. Despite Harry's disapproval of prejudice and cruelty, he didn't hate the man just for that fact alone; it could not be said that the feeling was mutual.

Double Potions with Slytherins had started tediously. Mainly due to Ron having tagged along with him, as if attached at his hip, and going on about how Snape favored his Snakes. Harry had thought it irritating and kept silent aside from a few comments of dubious agreement. They arrived early to the classroom in the dungeons, at Harry's insistence, but he slightly regretted it when he traded gazes with Draco, who looked disgusted and a bit betrayed at seeing a Weasley beside him.

He groaned internally. Hadn't he said he didn't choose friends lightly or so quickly? Why was he so quick to make assumptions and feel betrayed? He wasn't even Harry's friend either.

 _So troublesome, this friend thing_ , he thought decidedly, and began to set up for class. Moments later, Professor Snape swept into the room with long, patient strides, his black robe billowing behind him dramatically. Harry's viridian eyes were fastened on him as he walked in and glowed slightly when he felt his presence — _dark, frigid, abyssal, hollow, fierce_ and _thundering_ — that sent a shiver down his spine. It was dark, chillingly so, and he couldn't help but wonder what it meant and why it was so much more - _heavier?_ \- than anyone else's that he'd felt so far.

His anticipation had begun to build for Potions, but it had halted when the dark man began to call out the roll. "Ah, yes," he said softly in a dark drawling voice that suited his presence and nearly black eyes. "Harry Potter. Our _new...celebrity."_

Harry almost applauded the way the man spoke. It was insulting, yes, but the way he pronounced every single syllable with an almost mellifluous roll of the tongue was quite a thing to hear. The statement was clearly a means to single him out - which was a first for him - and did earn a few snickers from a scattering of Slytherins, but Harry was curious to see Draco's face was unamused and even a bit dismayed.

Professor Snape went on to finish calling the roll before beginning a speech that had the entire room silent. "You are hear to learn the subtle science and exact art that is potion-making." His voice was barely that of a whisper, but it seemed to be amplified in the cold dungeon. "There is very little wand-waving here, thus leading many of you to disbelieving this is actually magic. I don't expect you to comprehend the beauty of a softly simmering cauldron with its shimmering fumes, the delicate power of liquids that seep through human veins, bewitching the mind, ensnaring the senses...I can teach you how to bottle fame, brew glory, and even stopper death — that is, if you aren't as large a bunch of dunderheads as I usually have to teach."

Harry's excitement dampened at the last statement in the speech. The entire monologue displayed the man's devotion and passion for the the subject he taught, but the last sentence clearly showed he shouldn't be teaching it, certainly not to impressionable children, in his opinion. Not that he wasn't one, but Harry at least could see how the man's purposefully cold and smooth voice struck like lightning, in a moment's notice and without hesitation, leaving damage beyond repair. The man could ruin someone. He probably already had.

Yet Harry still could not help but be impressed by the man.

"Potter!" The man said suddenly. _Like lightning_. "What would I get if I added powdered root to asphodel to an infusion of wormwood?"

Harry tilted his head minutely, though not in confusion. He knew the answer, but how could the man ask that on the very first day? Did he expect everyone to memorize all the potions and their components before the term began? _A method of ruin_ , Harry thought with slight irritation.

"Don't know, Potter?" Harry gave no visible response. The man's lips curled into a light but clear sneer. "Tut, tut. I guess fame isn't everything, is it?"

"It isn't, sir," Harry agreed impassively, challengingly.

The silence seemed to get thicker but Harry paid little mind to it as he met nearly black eyes. "Oh?" His professor said, and the one word seemed to hold so much ire and malcontent that Harry was taken aback. "Let's try again. Potter, where would you find bezoar if I told you to look?"

 _The stomach of a goat_. "Like you said, sir, fame isn't everything," Harry said plainly, no sarcasm or snark in his voice. He felt Ron jab him in the side with his elbow, but didn't look to see the shocked and possibly angered face of the redhead. He ignored the pain easily, it was minor compared to what he felt when younger, although, for the hundredth time, the boy's presence was bothersome.

The Potions Master's eyes narrowed. Slow, barely audible steps echoed through the room as he stepped through the aisles. All eyes were on him, just as one would think he'd intended. "Did you even open your book before coming, Potter?"

Harry thought there may have been a more cutting question on the edge of the man's tongue but seemed to have been bitten back. It impressed him a little to see the man, who clearly had a rather sharp tongue, able to restrain himself when hostility was unwarranted. "I did, sir."

"Then I'll allow you to redeem yourself," Professor Snape said, with almost faux kindness. "What is the difference between monkshood and wolfsbane?"

Harry took less than ten seconds to answer. "They are the same plant," he said slowly, though not unsurely. He would've known the answer even without studying, he'd learned of flowers and plants year ago. "Also referred to as aconite."

The Potions teacher's eyes narrowed further in that moment before his lip curled once more. "That is correct. Point to Gryffindor," he awarded, almost grudgingly, and spun away. "And in addition, asphodel and wormwood create a potent sleeping potion that is known as the Draught of Living Death. A bezoar is a stone found in the stomach of a goat and will save you from all but the most potent and incompatible poisons." He paused to sweep a gaze over the room. "Well? Why aren't you writing?"

Harry didn't need to but he wrote what the professor said on parchment. He was a bit surprised by the fact the man, whom so many had claimed religiously bias toward his own house and he had seen a bit of prejudice himself, had given him points. He knew he wasn't the only one since many of the Gryffindor and a few "uncouth" Slytherin were gaping, until the Potions teacher swept his dark gaze over them.

Things were relatively silent after that, and contrary to the rather civil beginning, the class got worse instead of better. Professor Snape had split them into pairs — pairing Harry with Ron, the cruel man — and told them to mix a simple boil curing potion. He walked around the room, watching all carefully like a good teacher, criticizing everyone like terrible one — excluding Draco, he noticed with curiosity, and may have even seemed to like the blond — and even going as far as to snarl insults when one boy made a mistake and drenched himself in the incomplete potion.

That boy was unfortunately Neville and painful, red boils suddenly sprang on his skin. Snape had turned on Harry instantly just because he was at the table next to his, accusing him of not informing the boy of his use of the wrong ingredient, and, after taking back the point he'd given earlier ten times over, sent Harry to take the boil covered boy to the hospital wing.

Harry nearly hissed at the accusations - how was he supposed to help someone else when he'd never done a potion himself before? - angered regardless of how impressed he was by the man, but bit his tongue and did as the man said after grabbing both of their bags. It didn't stop him from glaring at the man though as he grabbed Neville gently — he honestly enjoyed the concentrated blast of his presence, _ancient_ and _earthy_ — and left the dungeon before the irrational teacher could spout more insults. A few minutes into their walk, Harry was sufficiently calmed from his anger, but Neville was crying in a pain now.

Harry winced at the sight and stopped them. Neville panicked for a few moments before Harry told to him to calm down and trust him. He didn't immediately, but when he was calmed a bit, Harry tapped into his magic. He hadn't ever used magic on another, but he was familiar with the movement and sensation of magic as it healed. He tried to replicate that feeling and allowed his magic to flow out of him and wash over Neville's form. His eyes strained in concentration as he directed his magic, emphasizing the intent to _heal_ and _soothe,_ until he began to see the new boils that popped up every second stop and begin to recede.

After a few moments, only a smattering of them remained but Harry had to stop as he felt a wave of exhaustion. He bent over a little, leaning a hand against the wall as he panted lightly. Who knew healing another would be so tiring?

"What...what was that?" Neville asked with a stutter and Harry looked up. The boy's eyes were wide and awed and maybe even a bit afraid. "H-how did you do that? That was wandless!"

Harry smiled weakly and internally scolded himself. Hadn't he decided not to show anyone? He undid that decision within the first week. "It was," he agreed, straightening with a huff. "Now, let's get to the hospital wing."

He began walking in the wing's direction, he had found it earlier that week when looking for refuge away from Ron - he hadn't found it, unfortunately - and memorized the route, aware of the timid footsteps behind him. Though he didn't show it, Harry was rather uneasy. He hadn't shown anyone the magic he'd learned by himself and he hadn't seen anyone use magic the same way either. He didn't know how people would respond. Though from Neville's words, wandless magic wasn't entirely unheard of. In fact, he looked a bit awed. And that made Harry just a bit uncomfortable. He sincerely hoped it hadn't anything to do with his supposed fame.

In the hospital wing, Harry met the kind but fierce Healer called Madame Pomfrey, but as he didn't plan to go to the hospital wing often, he only exchanged meaningless pleasantries with her until she was looked at Neville and gave him a potion that reversed the damage. This only took around twenty minutes, so there remained thirty until their current class ended, and they clearly weren't returning there any time soon. Thus, why he was sitting next to a nervous Neville Longbottom on a bench, basking in his strangely intense presence while waiting in nervous anticipation for questions.

Oddly enough, they never came. There was no talking at all actually. Thirty minutes passed by slowly, yet Neville didn't even open his mouth to speak of something as mundane as the weather. The only time he spoke was when he expressed his gratitude when he was about to depart. At that, Harry stopped him and asked why. The nervous boy had looked uncertainly at that and Harry almost thought he wouldn't answer, but he did eventually.

"W-wandless magic is said to be a skill only the most powerful and skilled wizards can wield." The Longbottom began, and Harry's brows shot up. "Yet you didn't show it off, like I'm sure many of our classmates would have," he said with a grimace. "I've noticed how you don't really like attention too, but despite that, you still healed me. I won't demand any answers from you when you clearly never wanted to bring attention to it. I-I'm sorry if I made you do something you didn't want to."

Harry's eyes widened at the explanation and he didn't know what to say. "Thank you," he said eventually, smiling a bit, which surprised Neville. "I don't regret healing you. I'm glad actually."

Neville's eyes sent wide. "Wh—"

"Harry!"

They both turned to see Ronald Weasley running toward them and Harry had to restrain a scowl at seeing Neville clamp up in the red head's presence. "Yes?"

"We're still going to Hagrid's, aren't we?" Ron asked when he stopped in front of them.

Harry recalled the invitation from the half-giant he received this morning and nodded. "Just let me say bye to Neville."

"Ah..." Ron finally seemed to take notice of the other boy. "Oh, they're all gone. Thought it'd leave a mark."

Neville blushed a little and fidgeted. "N-no, they're all gone."

"Really? Well that's a shame," Ron muttered sullenly. Harry shot him a sharp look and he raised his hands. "I meant we could have shown marks of him getting hurt in Potions and get Snape fired! The man doesn't need to be a teacher, being so nasty and rude. You saw the way he acted towards Gryffindors, you especially!"

"I haven't forgotten, Ron," Harry said, frowning, just barely stopping it from becoming a scowl. There were so many things wrong with those statements. "Too late now. He'll give us another chance to get him." Ron perked up at this so he turned back to Neville, who seemed to be trying to back away subtly from the two. "Thank you for understanding, Neville. Perhaps we'll be friends someday, eh?"

Neville's eyes widened again. "Friends? With _me?"_ He asked, as if confused, but it was just disbelief and Harry didn't like how unconfident the boy was. It was probably a product of his family's treatment.

Harry dismissed the unsavory thoughts to smile. "Yes, you. But I don't choose friends simply. One day though." He smiled once more before turning away, walking into the direction he knew Hagrid's cabin to be. He didn't wait for Ron, though he could the red head's footsteps as he hurried to follow. He almost didn't care for the boy's stalkerish following as he smiled widely. He was close to making his first friend, and it was with one of those with a pleasant presence. He certainly hoped they did, Neville sounded like he'd make a great companion. Being kind, observant, and thoughtful, he was the perfect candidate.

Around three, Harry, followed by Ron, arrived at Hagrid's small wooden house on the edge of the Forbidden Forest. Harry's eyes were side as he felt a tumultuous amount of presences varying from vicious to innocuous within the forest, but since Ron was walking warily at his side, and they were unfortunately banned from the forest, he could only continue to the half-giant's. The visit wasn't anything big, just a small meeting with a slobbering dog — which Harry made go to Ron instead; he'd fix the slobber later — hard food, which both boys agreed to pretend they enjoyed, and they spoke of their first lessons. Ron mentioned the caretaker, an Argus Filch, who was apparently out for him. Harry was amused to hear his insistence, though he was more curious about the man's presence. It reminded him a bit of Mrs. Figg's, not nauseous, but not full of sensation either. Then Ron brought up Professor Snape's antagonism and apparent hatred of him.

After disputing that and then not explaining why, Hagrid changed the direction of the conversation abruptly, mentioning Ron's brother Charlie, who was studying dragons if Harry remembered correctly. While Ron told Hagrid all about his brother's latest work, he picked up a piece of paper that happened to be a cutting from the newspaper _Daily_ _Prophet_. Apparently, the vault that was broken into at Gringotts had occurred on the same day they had been there, and nothing had been stolen because it was emptied earlier than the attempted theft. He mentioned this coincidence but Hagrid wouldn't meet his eyes and offered another rock cake.

Harry surmised that it was more than just a coincidence and his curiosity sparked back up. What was in that vault that was so important someone risked death by vicious goblin to get it? What could that small package be? Hagrid obviously knew, but he clearly wasn't speaking on the matter. He'd just have to figure it out on his own then.

Leaving the small house, Harry had a sly little grin. He would finally be starting the first step to discovering the secrets of Albus Dumbledore. After all, that was the only reason he was put in the rowdy, reckless, overzealous, but loyal House of Gryffindor.

His lips curled into a scowl. They had redeeming qualities, but the vast majority of other qualities were irritating to his solitary disposition. They _always_ wanted to hang out and have fun - excluding a few of he more mature upperclassmen - and while that wasn't bad, he wanted very little, in comparison to others, to do with it! They were cutting into his reading time!

Bloody hat, he'd burn it when he found the chance.

 **{TUoM}**

 **So? Did my warnings from the beginning ring true? (As in the first chapters.) Either way, I wanted to say after first year, which I unfortunately wrote all in Harry's POV like the book, there will be extra in other's perspectives. (Honestly, I just wanna a try at Snape's XD) When I get to second year (cause it's too late for first), I'll try to write more...innovatively. Yeah. So. Who wants to burn the hat? On that vein, the reason for that sorting is because in my mind, the hat was told to get Harry into the Lion's Den "no matter the means". It's an unfair choice for Harry, but for the Greater Good, sacrifices must be made... Poor obviously Ravenclaw Harry... (Also, don't take Neville's words to heart, wandless magic is just unpracticed by most, to the extent that Harry has.)**


	6. Chapter 6

**Thank you for reading! Even if you don't like it and it's terrible. I don't know what was in my head, as usual, when I write this. I will eventually rewrite it, but that won't happen just yet so you may have to make due with this (or not). Anyway, a certain idea in his chapter I had didn't come out very well so I will explain it now.**

 **In the prologue, Harry absorbed some of the residual magic left behind from Voldemort's demise and there are of course side effects. A good effect is that it expanded his magical core and boosted already present characteristics (take a guess what I mean). There are "bad" effects too however. On certain days of the year, such as Samhain, Yule, and the solstices, when magic is at its most potent and "sentient" in a sense, the magic he absorbed is agitated and it shows in his behavior. It's not too great now, he is only more cynical and acerbic, but when he is older he may be more agressive. As good as this sounds, it didn't come out well in this chapter ._. okay, that's all I had to say.**

 **Enjoy my excessive retelling of Harry Potter. Good luck.**

 **{TUoM}**

 _"Look! It seems Longbottom forgot his gran's gift."_

 _"Potter, this is Oliver Wood. Wood - I've found you a Seeker."_

 _"I challenge you to a wizard's duel, Potter."_

Harry massaged his temples as the words repeated over and over in his head. He hadn't known so many things could go wrong in one day. Though many of his fellow Gryffindors would disagree, focusing on the hilarity and novelty of not only standing up to Draco Malfoy, but becoming the youngest Seeker in the century at the same time. And if they knew of what would occurred even later, they would be throwing a fit over not getting to see what happened.

Harry, however, was groaning from a growing headache over the events that took place. The day had been just an ordinary Thursday, aside from the fact that the first year Gryffindors and Slytherins would be having joint broom flying practice. He should've known the day wouldn't end well as soon as he learned that. He didn't, unfortunately, due to being distracted by the constant long, boastful stories of his classmates of their great flying advents that never happened. He could understand that people enjoyed being praised and the center of attention — well, maybe not the latter — but why did they have to go on and on and _on_ about it? Especially Seamus Fletcher, Ron, and _Draco_ of all people. When _he_ started proclaiming flying for years, often to escape the attacks of Muggle helicopters, Harry could only stare at the boy as if he'd suddenly grown another head. One would think his father would have squashed such a thing out of him, judging by how strict he was about composure and decorum. Maybe Draco was just a naturally flamboyant and boastful person?

Thankfully, the stories had calmed down as the impending lessons finally arrived, but things only went down hill from there. The lessons were with a woman called Madame Hooch, and were relatively simple despite how nervous almost all the students were. At least to Harry it was; all they had to do was call the broom up to their hand upon a stated command, which many struggled with. He was a bit confused when most didn't get theirs on the first try and gave simple advice for those struggling to just be assertive and set aside their nerves. It helped some more than others but eventually, everyone got a hold of it.

Harry had been wincing at the old, faint magical presence within and coating his broom as he floated on it with remarkable ease when things went wrong. Neville, quite unsurprisingly he had to admit, had somehow lost control of his rickety broom — it was partly the broom's fault, he supposed — and fell off, breaking a wrist. Harry had felt tempted to volunteer to take the boy to the hospital wing again, but the teacher took him herself so he stayed silent. Directly after, Draco found the gift Neville had received that morning from his grandmother — a curious object called a Remembrall that somehow changed color when it's owner forgot something. In a mixture of distaste for Draco causing people to laugh at his potential friend and wanting to feel the presence and investigate the ball, Harry had asked for the blond to give it to him.

It came out almost like a demand in his eagerness and that had resulted in Draco's face twisting in something not too far from disdain. He was still angry and hurt, it seemed, because of his apparent closeness with a certain redhead with stalker-ish tendencies. This lead to Draco flying into the air and him following, against the wishes of Hermione Granger who he couldn't decide was more worried for him or getting in trouble for him breaking the rules. He forgot all about her when he and Draco were high above the ground.

"Why are you behaving so immaturely," Harry had questioned seriously, after overcoming the initial exhiliration of flying so high. "From what I saw, your father wouldn't approve."

That was the wrong thing to say. Draco immediately snapped at him not to speak of his father. After all, they weren't _friends,_ nor even _allies._ He had no right to. Harry had been surprised to hear that but quickly understood — he used this term loosely — what the boy meant and apologized. The boy still thought he had lied to him about being his friend. His apology hadn't helped and it eventually got to the point where Draco snarled at him that no matter how much time passed, he'd never be his friend, and then he threw the Remembrall in a fit of anger.

Harry had finally lost his patience at that and hissed that he wouldn't want to be friends with such a prat — not a wise decision in hindsight — anyway before racing after the magical ball. His ease with a broom and kinetic vision allowed him to chase it and later dive at it until he caught it, though he did have to tumble onto the ground to land because of the terrible condition of the broom. He was scowling internally and admiring the ball at the same time when Professor McGonagall suddenly shouted his name. He could only listen when she began to furiously tell him exactly what was wrong with what he just did, but he was pleased to see that redeeming Gryffindor loyalty even when it was facing _McGonagall_ of all people.

He honestly thought he was in serious trouble when she made him follow her, not saying a single word of explanation, and he almost panickec. What was going to happen? Would he be suspended? And have to go back to the Dursleys not even after a month away from them. Or worse, would he be expelled? He didn't give much thought to expulsion, since he hadn't really done anything too terrible, but it dwelled enough that he might have been hyperventilating had the Transfiguration teacher not suddenly introduced him to an older student named Oliver Wood. His panic quickly faded to disbelief when she stated he was to be Gryffindor's Seeker.

Later, that disbelief had turned into extreme irritation. That would take even more time away from reading and practicing magic! Did the Gryffindors have something against him? Could he not use any of his free time on his own? Had the hat known this would happen? Why didn't he just put him in Ravenclaw, honestly!

Things spiralled even more from bad to terrible when dinnertime arrived and Ron was begging for him to tell him what happened. He didn't tell him, of course, since he was in no mood to be generous, but he didn't have to when the twin Weasleys spilled the beans to their younger brother. They were the Beaters on the team, he learned, and were excited to finally have a chance to win the Quidditch cup. A bit of Harry's day was salvaged by finally officially meeting the infamous prankster twins Fred and George — he couldn't understand why Ron was irritated with them so often, they were hilarious, if a bit careless — but his day had become even worse once they left.

He still didn't quite know how it came down to it. There was a brief, one-sided, acidic exchange between them before Draco suddenly challenged him. He didn't know what a wizard's duel was and, despite disliking being the ignorant person in regards to a subject, he was prepared to suck it up and ask what it entailed when Ron suddenly accepted on his behalf and declared himself his second. His eyes went wide but before he could day anything, Draco stated his own second and declared a meeting place before striding away stiffly. There was a moment where Ron acted as if he hadn't just forced him into a duel and started spouting interesting but useless facts about wizarding duels, to which he walked away from and mostly ignored him until the time came for them to leave for the duel, which he apparently could not ignore unless he wanted to lose his magic. He didn't put much stock in that though since he hadn't felt any magic present in the challenge like he read about, but was curious enough to go.

It surprised him briefly when Hermione was still awake and confronted them, he hadn't known anyone had overheard Draco's challenge. They had been in the Great Hall when it happened, but there had beenenough talking around them that he thought it went unheard, which was pretty stupid of him when he thought about about it. Of course someone heard them, they were in public! It was more strange that only Hermione was present, to be honest. And more inconvenient. She and Ron got on like oil and water; they just didn't mix.

Thus him massaging his temples as they started to go at each other viciously. He watched her and Ron argue for a few seconds — Hermione saying considerably sharper, wittier quips, but he wasn't in the mood to appreciate — before snapping at them to either keep bickering like five year olds or shut up and follow him. He ignored the shocked looks on their faces and started to head for the Trophy Room, where Draco said to meet. Unsurprisingly, they were silent on the way there — except for a moment where they found a sleeping Neville. Harry silently apologized for just leaving the boy as they passed him — he had to hiss at them to be quieter just in cast the caretaker, Filch or his cat, Mrs. Norris, were near. They made it up to the third floor — he almost didn't realize that was where they were, but he did and remembered how the professor warned them against going in a corridor near the one they were in.

 _Why did Draco choose to meet here_ , he wondered as he walked into the Trophy Room. The empty trophy room. His verdant eyes narrowed as soon as he noticed. He had come to realize over the past few weeks that Slytherins were _always_ first to anything; breakfast, class, lunch, and dinner. Regardless of year, they were never late, or at the very least, not later than anyone not their own. For Draco and his dull bodyguards to not be there meant either of two things. One, he was unable to come and, due to it already being too late, wouldn't. Or two, he hadn't come on purpose, and was planning something cruel, like any Snake would. Hadn't the boy seemed to almost hate him during their exchange during dinner, he wouldn't have considered the second option.

When he heard the sound of Filch's voice, he concluded it was the latter, sadly. "Sniff around, my sweet, they might be lurking in a corner."

Harry didn't wait any longer to lament the possible loss of a potential friend as he waved for the other two to follow him as quickly as possible. Filch had gone into the Trophy Room just as he lead them out and into a long gallery of suits of armor. There escape was going perfectly fine until Ron tripped over one and sent it crashing to the floor loud enough to wake the dead. To make matters worse, the redhead screamed to run and they had no choice but to do just that. Harry was leading, whipping around corners with little thought other than a few choice tips on being covert towards Ron, when he felt a draft from behind a tapestry. He nearly tore it from the wall on good faith that it was one of the hidden pathways the Weasley twins had boasted of, and was rewarded with going right through and appearing in a corridor near their charms classroom.

He, along with Hermione and Ron, was panting as they finally stopped. He wasn't too tired, he actually appreciated the small bout of exercise after an entire month, but the cause of it lessened his appreciation. He was still a bit disappointed about Draco. He wasn't going to be able to investigate his unique presence, no time soon at least. He was thinking about giving more thought to being friends with him later — perhaps when they were older and less prone to tantrums — when Hermione suddenly spoke.

"Malfoy tricked you," she told him bluntly. "You realize that, don't you? He was never going to meet you, Filch new someone would be in the Trophy Room. Malfoy must have tipped him off."

Harry's lip curled briefly in anger before he swallowed his ire. He knew the girl was only speaking what she knew, not being callous but factual. But it didn't stop irritation from blooming at her mention of it as if he was slow. "I realized," he gritted out, unable to withhold a glare. She blinked in surprise and he turned away, taking a calming breath. "Let's go."

Not long after, Peeves, an annoying pest of a poltergeist, appeared in their path. He muttered mischievously over whether or not to tell Filch, and Ron apparently got impatient. Like the Gryffindor in a foul mood he was, he snapped at Peeves to get out of the way and actually took a swipe at him. An intangible ghost. The poltergeist proceeded to smirk and began to shout out their location and Harry was once again leading them in a run around the corner. They came upon a locked door and Hermione quickly unlocked it with a whispered " _Alohomora_!" — which Harry eyed appreciatively; they weren't set to learn it for another few weeks, so he had went ahead and practiced it once he realized classes would be slow — and they were in.

As Ron and Hermione pressed their ears to the door, listening to Peeves do the same thing he did to them to Filch, Harry examined there surroundings. They weren't in a room but the forbidden corridor. The one that would lead to a "very painful death". And he could see why the mad professor had said as such.

He was looking straight into the eyes of a huge dog that filled the entire space between the floor and ceiling with three heads. It's presence saturated the air — _wild_ and _feral_ — and it raised the fine hairs on the back of Harry's neck on end. It was the most frightening creature he'd ever seen, but his fear didn't prevent him from scanning the room and noticing the trapdoor beneath the dog. His eyes widened and he realized why something so dangerous was in a school for _children._ It was protecting something, something Albus Dumbledore would apparently risk children's lives for.

As soon as the thought registered, he turned around and pushed the two who were silent with horror out of the room just as the three-headed dog growled and lunged forward. He slammed the door shut behind them — missing the unaided clicking of the door locking itself once again — and they were all running until they reached the seventh floor. He woke Neville this time and they all went into the common room. Neville was looking perplexedly at them, questioning with his eyes but nowhere near confident enough to voice them, at their ragged forms.

"What do they think they're doing, keeping a thing like that locked up in a school?" Ron said almost hysterically, and Harry sent him a warning look to quiet down. Ron didn't notice. "If any dog needs exercise, that one does."

Harry massaged the bridge of his nose, closing his eyes as he breathed out deeply. _Idiot_.

"You don't use your eyes, do you? Didn't you see what it was standing on?" Hermione snapped in a display of observational skills and her inability to hold her tongue.

"The floor?" Ron stated the obvious with a quasi-growl, sounding like he had something caught in his throat.

"No," she said, rolling her eyes before glaring at him. "It was standing on a trapdoor. Obviously, it was guarding something." She stood up. "I hope you enjoyed yourselves. We could have been killed, or worse — expelled. Now, if you don't mind, I'm going to bed."

Harry hissed inaudibly in anger. Was that accusation he heard in her words? _She,_ who had demanded to come with them, and had voluntarily? Where did she get off with the belief that she could say something like that?

When Ron said something very similar to his thoughts, Harry shivered. It was a sign that he was being infected by the boy's presence, wasn't it? He took that as a sign that it was time to go to bed and left the boy without a word. He did exchange a brief look with a confused Neville and knew the boy wouldn't speak of what he'd just heard, but he may ask about it if he ever gained the courage. He smiled a bit at that and was glad that he was at least going to sleep with a smile on his face.

Just before his eyes drifted closed, he connected the guard dog to what Hagrid had withdrawn out of Gringotts. It was only a theory, but if he was right, he now knew it's approximate location and just how much worth it held.

Enough worth to have a huge, untamed dog in a school of young, defenseless children.

And just like that, Harry went to sleep with a scowl curling his lips.

 **{TUoM}**

The next morning, as soon as Harry stepped into the Great Hall, his bright verdant eyes were on the Slytherin table. If there was any way to clear whether or not Draco had given away his location, it'd be the first moment he laid eyes on him. He looked at the Slytherin table and met silver grey eyes wide with surprise. It was only for a single moment, but he saw the sheer surprise and something akin to regret eclipse the boys face before it shuttered into indifference.

Relief flashed through Harry as he moved his gaze and sat at the Gryffindor table, even though he realized what had happened. Draco _had_ tricked him, if the regret was enough of a sign to go by, breaking what little trust he had for the platinum haired boy, but the regret meant there might be a chance to be friends. Someday. No time soon. But now it meant he had to focus on other matters, such as the object being guarded by the three-headed dog, the Cerberus. He found the name when looking earlier that morning in one of his extra books on dangerous creatures, and dangerous was an understatement for the hellhound if you didn't know it's weaknesses. What object holds such value that the headmaster would risk hundreds of children?

His pondering was cut short when owls suddenly flooded into the hall. Like everyone else, his attention was caught by a long package carried by six owls. His brows rose when they dropped it into his hands as well as a note from Professor McGonagall. Inside the parcel, which the note had expressly said not to open, was a racing brooms, one of the best according to Ron, called the Nimbus Two Thousand. Despite the packaging around it, he could feel the broom practically humming with vitality. So he now had something good to expect from Quidditch; lovely. He was to go to a meeting with Oliver Wood that afternoon too. Even better.

Before Ron could even ask what was in the parcel or what the note said, Harry got up and headed to the owlery. Hedwig, his beautiful snowy white owl, was peering at him with golden eyes as if she expected him. He smiled and petted her before trusting her alone with his parcel, after casting a lightening charm he'd finally gotten to learning on it with his wand.

After, he left for classes as normally, refusing to answer anyone's questions, even when he left the castle at seven to meet Oliver Wood. The older boy hadn't been there, so he took his new broom out for a fly and it was even better than he thought; it was so _free._ When Wood did come, the boy repeated what Ron had told him about Quidditch in more detail and explained his role as Seeker. Harry was pleased to learn his role didn't restrict him from his freedom to fly however he wanted, even when he was chasing after the Snitch. His thoughts about the sport were only improved when he realized players had to be in good shape thus appropriate physical training. He had noticed there weren't many physical activities wizards and witches did often since hey had magic, aside from dueling but that wasn't the most common activity in the average household.

Quidditch practices seemed to make time pass by faster, and Harry was almost surprised when he realized it had been two months since Hogwarts became more like home to him than the Dursleys' house had ever been. He had grown used to the innumerable presences and sensations in the old castle, to a degree, though he was never able to release his shields even halfway. It was something he was able to live with though, since he hadn't felt a single instance of that horrible nausea he lived with for seven years of his life. So he was happy for the majority of his residence there.

For a few rare days, however, he was rather caustic and had a morbid sense of humor. One of those days just happened to be Halloween. It had begun when he was younger, his enthusiasm suddenly vanishing and leaving him pessimistic and irritable on the holiday, and it had nothing to do with his relatives affectively putting him on house arrest in the cupboard for the day. He had never known why, just that the day was one where his happiness seemed to become vapid and intangible. Now he had an idea why. It was the day his parents were killed. Why an event that took place when he was little more than one affected his behaviour so significantly, he didn't know — he had a feeling it was related to magic, as all odd events had so far — but he knew it wasn't going to improve his mood, even when venting on others.

So he was silent for that day. During breakfast he had to bite his tongue when his Gryffindor _mates_ got all excited about the holidays — about _Halloween_ and not _Samhain,_ the actual Wizarding holiday. Bloody children were so excited about candy and treats they were forsaking wizarding traditions. _Disgraceful. Celebrating a non-magical holiday denoted from their own rather than the original. I worry for the future of this country if this is the best it has to offer._

He completely ignored the fact that celebrating Samhain was technically illegal and he himself knew little more than that it was time where magic was closest to the deceased.

Needless to say, Harry didn't say a single word and had to strengthen his shields to hold back his more...critical thoughts.

They hadn't improved when they _finally_ moved onto the practical part of Charms. It would have been exciting, hadn't he learned the charm _years_ ago _on his own_. Now all he had to do was say some ridiculous words and flick his wand to get the same reaction. It was only a matter of putting in just the right amount of magic and controlling it. Simple. Yet his _incompetent_ and shamefully _inept_ classmates couldn't get it even after a dozen tries. With the exception of a certain Muggleborn with a refreshing and lively presence and a few scattered through the room, but she was just as bad as the others when she decided to argue with the incompetent, complacent redhead with no other admirable skills than strategy, and that was only applied during chess. And when the boy insulted her, she _ran away_. To _cry in the lavatory ._

 _I don't know which one to feel worse about, the boy who wastes his potential out of laziness and complacency, or the girl with insecurity issues despite her obviously superior talent. Will they ever grow out of this?_

He doubted it.

During dinner, he was satisfied to cut into his dinner while thinking decidedly untoward thoughts of the people around him. That is, until an incompetent professor, the teacher for bloody _Defense,_ came in screaming about a troll before passing out like a coward. After the children had all screamed in terror, the wise, ever-sacrificing Professor Dumbledore had ordered the prefects to lead the students back to the dorms. Perhaps he forgot for a moment that the Slytherin dorms were in the dungeons, and that the Hufflepuffs had to pass by them to get to their dorms, but Harry's opinion of the man plunged from the already low expectations he had.

Harry figured the head of houses would do something and focused on his own dilemma. He would've been happy to go back to the dorms, hadn't his morals gotten in the way. He just happened to notice Hermione was gone. After tearing into Ron about him being the cause gently — he snorted, it was anything but. He imagined Snape would've been proud hadn't he hated him — and lead the boy to where he knew Hermione to be. There was a moment when he noticed Professor Snape heading toward the third floor rather than the dungeons, but he filed it for later as he focused on the girl he was risking his life for to find. He could feel her presence getting stronger, along with that of another almost as sickening as Muggles' — _vile, putrid, insignificant_ —and assumed it was the troll. He got out his holly wand, telling Ron to do the same, as they got closer.

Before anything, it became noticeable. First by scent, and how foul that was. Worse than old mold combined with months of built up sewage waste. The sounds of the creature became audible next, a dull, low grunting and loud, shuffling footsteps. Not too long after, it became visible; twelve feet, granite gray skin, and a great, horribly lumpy body with a head disproportionately small. It was like a monster out of a nightmare, made just a bit more alarming by the huge club in its limp grip.

Harry found the creature repulsive and wondered how it got in. Trolls were notorious for being highly unintelligent, there was no way it had gotten in on its own. Unless Albus Dumbledore was so senile he forgot to set the wards that were always around Magical Britain's securest location, the troll hadn't gotten in on its own. Someone had let it in.

His train of thought broken when a high-pitched shriek of fear coming from the place the troll had just gone. It was the bathroom, he realized with a start, and gestured for Ron to follow him in. He wasn't surprised by the sight that welcomed them. Hermione was squeezing herself as tightly against the wall as she could while the troll swung his club wildly as it advanced toward her.

 _So much for having some of the most potential of this generation_ , he thought snidely before shaking his head of the thoughts and telling Ron to distract it. Or, in layman's terms, be bait. Harry shamelessly took the opportunity of Ron attracting the simple-minded creature's attention to reach Hermione and pull her out of harm's way. When they were clear, he shouted at Ron to run but he should have known better than to be so loud when the noise, combined with those that Ron made as a distraction, seemed to drive the troll berserk. It began to roar and headed towards Ron, who was the nearest and had no way to escape.

Harry hissed in annoyance mixed with alarm and acted before his mind caught up with his actions. Blasted Gryffindors had rubbed off on him. He raised his wand, flooded magic into it — he had enough mind to not use _no wand at all_ at least — and directed it at the troll. He wasn't exactly sure what intent he put behind the magic, but the troll suddenly flew to the side, head bashing into the wall with a sickening crunch. A second later, it slid down to the floor, a trail of blood flowing it and soon pooling beside it.

When the vile and putrid presence suddenly disappeared, Harry felt himself go cold. Had he just done what he thought he had?

"Is it...dead?"

He didn't even look at Hermione, who asked the question, as he felt himself begin to tremble a little. He had killed it, hadn't he? A living being. He felt it's presence, as disgusting and appalling as it was, vanish into nothing. _Nothing_. He'd just extinguished a life.

" _What is going on here?_ "

Harry looked up, feeling a bit numb as Professor McGonagall flew in through the door, followed by Snape and Quirrell at the rear. He saw Professor Snape go directly to the troll and saw his dark eyes widen just a bit as he recognized the body for what it was; just a body. Harry's pale verdant eyes turned to Professor McGonagall who was bristling with almost righteous fury but he didn't feel any fear as he usually would have, even in his current mood.

"What on earth were you thinking?" She demanded, cold fury chilling her voice. "You were lucky you weren't killed. Why aren't you in the dormitories?"

Harry saw Professor Snape direct a piercing, narrowed look in his direction, but he couldn't move his lips, even if he had felt any inclination to — which he didn't.

"Have you nothing to say for yourself, Mr. Weasley, Ms. Granger, Mr. Potter?" She said frostily, sending a sharp look at each in turn when saying their name, but she paused when she looked at Harry. He didn't know what he looked like, but it obviously wasn't good if almost all the anger on his professor's face vanished, replaced by something with a semblance of shock and concern. "Is something wrong, Mr. Potter?"

Harry even blink as he looked down toward the body, now without a presence.

"Mr. Potter? What's wrong?" Professor McGonagall asked again. She turned towards Ron and Hermione. "What happened? What's wrong with him?"

Both were pale and seemed incapable of saying anything.

"The troll is dead." Professor Snape stated in his singularly unique speech.

The Transfiguration teacher looked at him sharply, in surprise, before her eyes went back to Harry. "Are you saying he..." She didn't say anything else as looked him over once more and realization suddenly dawned in her eyes. "He's in shock."

Harry tilted his head a fraction at that and he felt a drop of cold sweat drip down his neck. He'd heard that term before. When a person hadn't completely taken in a situation, they'd shut down in a way. Feeling almost nothing toward what they'd done until it finally registered in their mind. Those who went into shock had reported feeling numb and almost emotionless at the time as their pulse raced uncontrollably.

"That is...most probable." He said in a blank, absent tone.

That seemed to shock everyone into movement as Professor McGonagall snapped at Ron and Hermione to go to her office, and begun to lead Harry away by his hand. Professor Snape was staring at him expressionlessly before looking at Professor Quirrell, who'd sat down on a toilet at the sight of the troll in fear, with a sneer. Harry watched the man leave from the corner of his eye before following Professor McGonagall to the hospital wing, where he was looked at by the healer and later kept overnight when his being in shock was confirmed.

It was probably due to it being a bad day that he lost control of his magic, he concluded just before he went to sleep. And he would definitely feel it when he woke up. If he could have grimaced, he would have. Remorse was a terrible feeling; the horrid squirming of his stomach it caused was one of the reasons why he loathed doing anything that would cause him to feel it.

And _good lord_ — _Merlin,_ whoever — did he in the morning. Remorse hit harder, sliced deeper and ached far more than Vernon's belt ever did. Some would have thought it strange, he knew, for him to be taking his killing of one troll so hard, but it wasn't. Harry was interested in _all_ creatures, mostly due to his ability to sense them, but it had always been within his morals to not take a life if it was avoidable, like most people. Perhaps it wasn't avoidable in this case, Ron was in danger and couldn't save himself, so he acted before he thought. It was only reflex, nothing of conscious thought, but he still felt like it was. And the feeling was only made worse by the fact that he had _sensed_ the death of the troll, the draining of its life and presence.

It was then he realized his ability wasn't only a wondrous gift that's only consequence was frequent overwhelming in places of concentrated presences. There was also the consequence of sensing those presences vanish. Sensing when the owner's life has ended. His ability was also a curse in that sense. He would always know when someone died, feel every second of their passing.

But he still loved it. He genuinely enjoyed experiencing the sensations of others. Maybe not the occasional bad ones, but he wouldn't give his ability to anyone else if he had the choice. Feeling presences as they vanished with lives would just have to be a part he lived with. Especially when those lives were taken by his own hand. Though, it was likely that now that he knew, he would avoid killing and death at all costs. It was likely, but the future wasn't definite. He may have to do it one day...and he'd have to live with it.

He was thinking much along the same lines when Ron and Hermione came by his room that morning. They informed him of the story they told the professors, to which he was surprised to hear Hermione had blatantly lied to them — or in her words, didn't admit that what she was saying was just a theory. At the end of it, they said they told the teachers he'd used _Wingardium Leviosa_ , wickedly overpowered, to send the troll into the wall. It wasn't completely untrue so he didn't correct them. He had actually just sent his will, he believed, in the form of pure magic, but he didn't just tell them that.

There was a semi-uncomfortable silence after the explanation until Ron thanked him for saving him, but he fidgeted while saying it and almost ran away right after, so Harry wasn't sure of his sincerity. From the looks of it, the redhead was now afraid of him, or just unsettled by his actions, and had run away. It made him frown, but Harry didn't take it to heart. He'd probably react the same, and his intuition was telling him the boy would come back anyway.

When the redhead had gone, that left him and Hermione alone. He watched the girl with a mix of curiosity and wariness and a bit of concern when he saw her eyes were red from tears. He didn't say anything though, only watching as she watched back, vaguely aware of his shields lowering to observe her presence more closely. It was one of the most pleasant he'd ever felt, as were the other Muggleborns' he'd come by, he realized when he thought about it. But Hermione's felt the best, though he couldn't figure out why.

"I wanted to thank you," Hermione suddenly blurted out. He blinked at her and she stammered for a second before finding some words. "I know that no one likes me here...including you, but you still came after me. You risked your life and ended up taking another. I'm so sorry I forced you into doing that. And I thank you as well. I...I owe you my life."

Harry felt some kind shift in magic as the words left her mouth but decided to think of that later. He met the girls eyes as he sat up in his bed. "I won't lie to you, I don't particularly _like_ you, but I don't _dislike_ you either." He saw her eyes prickle with tears briefly before her brows furrowed in confusion. Before she could speak, he continued. "I just don't like making opinions about people without getting to know them. I won't become friends with anyone unless I truly like them." _That's my goal at least._

"Like Ron?"

Harry half-smiled, half-grimaced at that. "You could say that," he murmured. He didn't consider the boy a friend, and nor did he particularly like him. It was a comparison that could be used, he guessed.

"Would...would you ever consider being friends with...me?"

His brows rose at the question. He was under the impression that the girl didn't like him after the advent with the Cerberus. It should have gotten worse since she saw him...kill. Yet she wanted to be friends? "Why?"

She looked a bit flustered by the question. "I'm pretty sure you know I have no friends," she began. "I know it's because I'm a know-it-all and I tend to be a bit bossy, I'm not blind to my own behaviour. But I refuse to change myself for others." A sort of fierceness entered her brown eyes and Harry's eyes widened when he felt that fire reflect in her presence. He took note to study that later too. "However, I am willing to compromise with those I want to be friends with."

"But you didn't say why," Harry said, frowning a bit. He knew she was telling the truth, but he wanted to know _why._ People attached to others for many reasons, such as Ron sticking to him since he was the first to meet him on the train — or whatever he was there for, he could be wrong — or various Slytherins hanging around Draco for his nobility and wealth. He didn't think the girl before him was like either of those types, but he could never be sure if he didn't ask.

"I've been interested in you for a while," the girl admitted quietly. His brows shot up. "Since that time in the train when you told me not to believe everything I read. I thought you were just trying to look cool in front of your friends, but I realized there might be more to it when your later actions spoke contrary to that." Harry's brows furrowed at that. "I've been observing you since the first day off school. I've noticed how you hold back in class, though I don't know how much or why, and how you read a lot in you spare time. You're more like a Ravenclaw than a Gryffindor."

Harry smiled drily at that. If only he had been in Ravenclaw, he never wouldn't have to discover new ways to evade his housemates just to read or do homework rather than laze about.

"Just like I am," the girl continued. "I want to be friends with you because I feel like you'd at least give me a chance. Like you wouldn't abandon me just because of my bad habits."

 _Bad habits_? Harry's frowned. Was that what she considered the eccentricities of her personality?

"And you'd be my very first friend, in my entire life," she admitted with a half-hearted laugh. "I never had any friends when I was in Muggle primary school either for the same reasons I don't here. I'd like to become friends with you, but not out of pity. Just for someone I can possibly enjoy reading and talking to, that's all I want."

Harry mulled over her words silently for a few moments before nodding. "Then I'd love to be friends with you," he said, and smiled a bit. Despite only thinking about it for a moment, he didn't make the decision lightly. Hermione had already been on the list of potential friends, but Ron's constant presence had made it difficult to decide since he always bad-mouthed and instigated the girl. Now that he could see her alone, without agitations, he knew they would become great friends. Her presence and intelligence were a welcomed bonus.

Her brown eyes widened in surprise. "Really?" Harry could hear the hope and disbelief in her voice and smiled wider as he nodded. "Oh, thank you, Harry! You won't regret this!" She gave him a quick hug before skipping out of the hospital wing.

Harry was frozen on his bed in shock — no one had ever hugged him before — before his smile widened again. He'd just made his first friend. Finally. Excitement bubbled in him before it morphed into confusion.

What did friends even do together?

 **{TUoM}**

The weather grew colder as November progressed. Harry barely even noticed since he was caught up in Quidditch — which he had been cleared for after showing complete recovery from his shock — as the first game was against Slytherin. He was strangely nervous over it, just first time jitters he supposed, but he felt a bit better when Hermione had enough forethought to get him a book on Quidditch, one he hadn't seen before. She had also given him a jar of bluebell flames — he wondered how she got that particular spell, he hadn't been able to find its incantation, though he could summon flames of any temperature and color wandlessly, so it didn't really matter — which had kept him warm enough to not have to cast a Warming Charm.

He would admit he was a bit giddy over his new friend's presence, though she had clashed a bit with Ron when he had returned. He couldn't believe how much he enjoyed having a friend, especially one with so many similar interests. It was...fun. When he actually thought about it, he realized he hadn't had any fun since arriving at Hogwarts. Sure, he had enjoyed certain moments, mostly whem flying in Quidditch practice, but with Hermione, and Ron to a lesser degree, he had _fun._ And he loved how having fun felt.

Which was why he nearly lost his temper with Professor Snape when he confiscated the book she'd given him. It made him restless and almost temperamental that entire day until he actually got up and stormed to the staffroom to get it back. But being angry did not equate being rude; he refused to act like his relatives and they were practically synonymous to rude. He knocked on the door a few times, but since there was no answer, he opened the door a bit.

He was surprised to see that the room was occupied by two people in a curious position. Professor Snape was sitting, holding his robes above his legs as Filch handed him some bandages. Harry's eyes widened at the horrible sight of one his legs bloody and mangled. With teeth marks. Very large teeth marks. _The Cerberus_.

His thought was assured when the professor spoke. "Blasted thing. How are you supposed to keep your eyes on all three heads at once?"

Harry's eyes narrowed. Why was he risking getting close to the three-headed dog? To get the object being guarded? That would be the most obvious and simplest conclusion, but he wasn't going to make assumptions. He began to pull away quietly but his professor chose that moment to flick his dark eyes in his direction.

 _"Potter!"_

Harry flinched back at the pure vehemence in the one word and grimaced defensively. "I was just wondering if I could have my book back."

" _Get out! Now!_ "

He didn't have to be told a second time. Although he did send the man a scathing glare before leaving. He honestly didn't understand why the man loathed him so much. It made him curious but he put aside his thoughts on Snape's words and attitude to focus on the object the dog was guarding, whatever Hagrid had withdrawn from Gringotts. He hadn't been able to figure out what it was, so he went out on a limb and told Hermione, and since Ron was with them, the redhead as well.

The Weasley made the surprisingly plausible theory that since they had seen Snape going to the third floor the day the troll was there — Harry still flinched at the felt a stab of guilt at the mention of it — he was probably the one who let it in. Of course, Ron had stated it as if it were the absolute truth and only possibility, to which Harry gave him an unimpressed look, but the boy hadn't noticed. Again. Was it even possible for someone to be so oblivious?

The next day was the first Quidditch match of the season. Harry had been unable to relax and eat until Hermione finally gave him a book to distract him — a Muggle novel on a futuristic world where a new race was diverging from humans — and he nearly forgot what would be happening. It didn't last long though, since he soon had to be outside, along with the rest of the school, at eleven. He was excited yet at the same time a bit apprehensive. He had a feeling something would happen; something _always_ happened.

The match was amazing, from his viewpoint in the air, though he better understood the situation with the commentator Lee Jordan announcing every pass, feint, and score. He shouldn't have been surprised to hear a completely subjective assessment of the game. It was rather funny actually, and Harry had been on the verge of laughing when he saw the Snitch. He pursued the golden orb but lost it when the Slytherin captain suddenly blocked him, nearly causing him to crash in the process. He knew from the rules that it would not be a foul, but it did grant Gryffindor a free shot, so he wasn't too angered.

His anger truly sparked when he later felt his broom start moving out of his control. Flying was one of the few things thst he truly enjoyed and found some peace in, who was jinxing or cursing it? Even while being thrown around, he was able to look around, to search for the person casting on him since it probably required eye contact from a long distance. It was lucky — and mind boggling considering he was hundreds of meters in the air — that no one had noticed his situation yet aside from Hermione and the few who'd been watching him instead of the match. He looked towards the teachers' seats with slight difficulty, the broom was getting wilder, and saw two people looking at him, lips moving.

Professor Snape and Quirrell.

His eyes narrowed, but he couldn't focus on them any more to figure out which was jinxing him, his broom suddenly jerked higher. People were beginning to notice, including his teammates. The Weasley twins tried to get him off his broom and onto to theirs, but the closer they got, the higher he went, so they began to circle beneath him just in case he fell. Harry was just thankful he didn't suffer from a fear of heights.

Splitting his focus between keeping a grip on his broom — praise to Wood for knowing to train him in that specifically — he looked towards the teachers section again. He was surprised to see that Hermione had also noticed there was a jinx on his broom and was moving to intercept. He felt a bit warm. Was that how friendship felt? He shook away the feeling as he saw her knock over Quirrell and then set bluebell fire to Snape's robes. He wasn't sure if the first was intended, but the jerking of his broom suddenly stopped as both professors simultaneously lost eye contact and focus, leaving him unaware of the true perpetrator.

After, he had easily won the match, though it was only after he sped toward the ground and nearly crashed headfirst to catch it. There was a celebration afterwards, but he didn't participate. Instead, he had gone to Hagrid's with Hermione and Ron. He almost wished he'd left the latter behind when he plainly said the one who did it was Snape. He couldn't though, since Hagrid seemed to like talking to the boy, though the half-giant didn't seem particularly fond of him at the moment. He had joined Hagrid in the belief that they shouldn't blame Snape, at least not automatically without absolute proof.

Though a few good things came from Ron's outburst and big mouth. He mentioned the three-headed dog and they learned it's name was _Fluffy,_ of all things, and was lent by Hagrid to guard whatever Professor Dumbledore wanted hidden. Hagrid had stopped once he realized he'd almost spilled what the item was but Ron once again proved useful by being obstinate and getting him to spill more.

Harry was more than pleased when Hagrid blurted the item was one between Dumbledore and Nicholas Flamel. He stopped just then and asked them to leave, but Harry wasn't disappointed. Not at all. He knew who Nicholas Flamel was, and now he knew what the valuable hidden item was. He smiled wickedly as he led Hermione and Ron back to the castle.

They had a stone to find.


End file.
